Frodo, My Precious
by The Deepest Wells
Summary: Sequel to One Ring to Desire Him. At last, Frodo is rid of Delamarth and is on his way to the Undying Lands . . . but never will he forget her, and he wonders if he can ever recover. That is, until he finds healing he didn't expect on the other side of the sea, and old wounds he never thought would resurface.
1. Forgotten in Valinor

**Welcome to the sequel to** **One Ring to Desire Him!** **If you've made it this far, you've gone through what appears to be a tragic story in the first. This one is after Frodo sails to Valinor, to find healing he doesn't expect. If you like, you can think of this story as less of a real turn of events and more of a dream world; I put it as the events actually happening, but the first half may or may not take some getting used to. And for Frodo/Delamarth shippers, this story may or may not itch a little. Give it a shot; if it doesn't turn out the way you want, send me a PM and I'll write an alternate ending just for you. :) It will be labeled with your name and the tag "AU."**

 **Dedicated to Diem Kieu for sticking to the last story so well and encouraging me with all the beautiful reviews! Also for isaacmarble5, who sent me a message about this story and that got me to put it up faster. :D**

Frodo could hardly believe his eyes when he saw her. She perched on a rock like a nesting bird, staring down at the sand. She stood only to greet Elrond and bow to the other passangers that had disembarked. He shook his head; it couldn't be her. But it was: he knew her voice, her long, red hair, now even more unruly than before. Her eyes shone, bright like he'd never seen. His heart thudded with anxiety, and he struggled both to speak and to keep himself from speaking. He froze on the ship, unable to step forward.

Sev smiled at the tall creatures surrounding her. Out of courtesy for the newcomers, Sev had concealed her wings and horns upon reaching her perch. She gestured them onward towards her home, and Elrond led them only a few paces before calling out for the other Ringbearers.

Then a surprise came to her as a hobbit descended the landing plank. She gasped.

"Master Bilbo!" Sev exclaimed. She rushed up to him and assisted him over the water, catching him before he could drop into the shallow bay. He chuckled; he looked so much older than when she'd last seen him in Rivendell. "What brings you here?" she asked gently.

Bilbo smiled up at her, a wrinkly, bright smile. "I had to have one last adventure." Frodo stared at them, rendered again shocked.

Then Sev paused. "You were a Ringbearer," she mused. "How?"

Bilbo shrugged. "I had a ring once," he said cheerfully.

Sev glanced up at Gandalf, who waved it aside. She nodded; he would hopefully explain later. She smiled at Bilbo, leading him forward. Elrond directed him down the shore towards the paths towards the heart of Elvendom in Valinor.

Gandalf waited impatiently. "You receive no benefit from simply staying on the ship, Frodo. Healing will not come there—,"

Sev blanched, staring back at Gandalf. "Frodo?" she breathed. Her neck nearly snapped with the frantic energy of her head turning again to the ship. Her heart thudded anxiously.

Frodo exhaled slowly, forcing himself to march straight down and tell her how he felt. He stepped out from behind the white sail, descending the plank. He didn't get far before she caught his eye once again . . . and they both froze, staring at each other as though caught by an army of the enemy.

Sev swallowed. Her heart thudded horribly, afraid and suddenly sick, thrilled and shocked.

"Frodo?" she repeated.

Frodo stepped down ever so hesitantly into the water, approaching her. "Sev?"

Sev bit her lip and clamped her eyes shut. When they eased open again they were brimmed with tears. "Frodo!" She leaped forward, slamming into him. Frodo laughed suddenly and squeezed her close. He spun her around in the water, disbelieving. Tears fell from her eyes and dripped down the back of his cloak; she couldn't believe he was here, alive, in her arms.

"Frodo, you're here!" she exclaimed. Her wings tried to crack out of her back, but she sucked them back in: she wasn't quite so out of control to permit that. "Oh, Frodo, you came!"

Frodo set her down, but continued to embrace her. Gandalf courteously stepped away as the hobbit rubbed her shoulders and her back, feeling her to the best of his ability. "Sev, I didn't think you would be—I didn't know."

Sev pulled away to speak, but Frodo silenced her with a kiss to her cheek. He then considered perhaps that wasn't quite enough: he touched his lips to her forehead, her other cheek, endlessly dotting her gentle face with kisses. Sev's breath caught, and her thoughts began to fizzle away. She buried her jaw in his shoulder, desperately hanging on to him.

"Sev, there's something I wanted to tell you," he said hastily.

Sev pulled away suddenly. "Of course," she said, "but you must come eat first! They don't feed you much on those ships, if I recall correctly."

She dashed away, beckoning for him to follow. He hesitated in place.

"They fed me more than I've eaten in my entire life," he sighed, wondering what it would take to tell her. He slowly walked up the soft beach after her. The sand filtered between his toes, soaking into his very essence. Light enveloped him from all corners; the world suddenly felt so bright and pure. He didn't even remember Delamarth in that moment, all the horror she'd inflicted on him. Everything seemed amazingly perfect and new.

The trees shimmered like an ocean bay when the sunlight filtered through them. Frodo had a hard time keeping up; everything was so beautiful. As they neared the Elvish palaces, some of the trees had pale, gentle blossoms and succulent fruits of all kinds that illuminated the whole of the forest.

"This one," Sev called back as she gestured to the Elvish palace where Frodo would be staying. Frodo walked slowly, turning his head and trying to take everything in at once. When he finally caught up to her, she gently grabbed the back of his head and turned it to see the palace. His back straightened with sudden interest.

"I'm in the one over here," Sev said, gesturing off to the side. Frodo flicked his gaze there, making a note of the distance. Then he wondered if he could transfer to hers, if he received permission from Elrond.

Now that he had the opportunity to be healed, he thought to make Sev a part of him.

He glanced down at her, suddenly fearful she had found someone else. Based on the way she'd greeted him, however, he doubted it. "Sev, are there any other halflings on the island?"

She shook her head proudly. Admittedly she was happy to be almost alone, and she grudgingly asserted to herself that it was better being the only one of her species. "Just you and Bilbo." She shuddered in place. "I have so much to show you!" But then she halted herself. "Right; you have things to do first."

Sev turned to walk away, but Frodo grabbed her upper arm first. "What things? Sev, I'm ready."

One of her eyebrows shot up. "You're going to exhaust yourself if you let me take hold of your schedule. Come—you must get settled, or you'll have nowhere to sleep tonight."

Frodo felt the arrangements were taking too long, but he rationalized it was only a desire to tell Sev what he'd meant to in the Shire that kept him from being more tolerant of the process. Sev stood nearby, ensuring he had as much comfort as possible. She took more excitement in designing the final touches for his quarters than for her own, although she knew he might not care about them. She also got him to eat something before conceding to take him outside.

By the time they were finished, half the day had passed. She decided she wouldn't show him the vast majority of the continent until she figured out how to tell him that she was actually a dragon and knew how to fly another person somewhere.

"You're sure you aren't exhausted?" Sev asked skeptically. Since eating, he'd yawned eight times.

He didn't want to be tired right now. He shook his head vehemently, and Sev laughed outright.

"Maybe I'll convince you that you're tired," she chuckled. "But if you fall asleep out there, I'm carrying you back."

Frodo shrugged, his eyelids begging to drag shut. They flickered open, but not for long. "That shouldn't be a problem." Especially if he managed to tell her what he wanted.

She showed him nothing optimal for a sentimental moment that day, however. He felt the moment would come, but every time they turned a corner it was more of an adventure than a sacred, quiet situation for the two of them.

Sev exhausted him quickly. She did, in fact, carry him home. Since arriving in Valinor, she really had the opportunity to use the strength she initially had and discovered a great deal of abilities within herself. So she lifted Frodo into her arms easily and spread her wings, launching carefully into the sky. She sighed at the sudden drift of silver clouds in the snow-white moonlight, at how it made all of the palaces glow like beacons in an inky midnight. She brushed her cheek against Frodo's.

"You would have liked this too," she whispered, ducking back down to the palaces. "Someday, my friend."

She swooped in over one of the balconies of his room and through the marble arch. As outside, moonlight flooded the room. She laid him down on the huge bed and softly kissed his cheek. Initially she began humming. That soon turned to the song she'd been singing earlier before he landed; her fingers traced his pale skin as she sang.

"Don't say we had come so to the end; white shores were calling, you and I have met again." She bit her lip. "And you are here, in my arms." Being a dragon, she knew she was not the most competent singer, but her voice carried a low, uniquely husky tone to it. She brushed the dark curls out of his face. "Sleep well, Hero of Middle Earth."

It had taken her a while to figure out why he'd come, but once she recognized the logic of it he only appealed to her more. _He_ had destroyed the One Ring of Power, had been—according to the Elves and wise leaders she'd spoken to—the only one capable of taking the Ring so far. They said that while he did not destroy it in the end, his actions contributed more than anyone's to its destruction, and he had been strong until it completely crushed him.

Suddenly Frodo tossed with a sharp stab of cold to his shoulder. He winced as a nightmare faded into construction in his mind.

Sev's eyes widened. "Frodo," she hissed. She leaped forward, and claws sprouted from her fingers. Her tongue stuck out and she bit it while she searched for an abnormality . . . and she found four: three were external wounds, theoretically permanent, but two would not be difficult to remove if she could collect enough of her own fresh tears. The fourth, however, worried her. Her fingers roamed over his head. He felt as though he had a swollen goose egg up there, but it couldn't have been; the malady was his entire cranium. It didn't feel like anything stuck out, but it should have, for his entire head stung her skin with the heat of an intensely fatal wound.

Her eyebrows narrowed sharply, and she spun out of the room, clenching her fingers into fists. She threw open the main hall, where Elrond sat with Galadriel in council. They both glanced up as she strode quickly through the double doors, nearly fuming.

"What happened to him?" she demanded.

Both Elves looked flustered until she explained her outburst.

Galadriel turned, her hands folded patiently. "The Rings are very dangerous," she said. "Frodo had to bear the One Ring with a responsibility and a knowledge of its wickedness in a way none of us did."

"And he was stabbed by a Morgul blade!" Sev cried, inspecting her fingers. Black poison lingered in the fingertip of one, and the other held a sickly yellow tint. "And somehow he managed to get one gawking bit of a venomous bite, probably a whole nest of predators at once. And one of his fingers is gone." Then she shook her head. "Something else happened to him." Then her eyes widened again.

Elrond glanced at her. "Sevanaan?"

Her eyes doubled further, and her eyebrows shot upright. "My apologies," she muttered. She bowed before stumbling out. "A good night to you."

She didn't hear their reply. She slowly stepped back into Frodo's room, laying her hand over his heart. She was right; his heart thudded with the empty echo of hidden heartache, and his head throbbed with pain. There was no doubt in her mind that Bilbo's ring had been the One.

Frodo had fallen in love with the One Ring.

She remembered what he told her that day, about how Bilbo's ring could become a woman and had touched him. She grabbed her head, backing away from him frantically: the Ring must have plagued him the whole way to Mordor, somehow making him fall in love with her. She winced at the thought of him throwing the thing he loved into the fires of Mount Doom, or however the Ring had ended up being destroyed.

Sev shook her head, bit her lip until it stung. "Frodo, I'm so sorry," she whispered before backing out.

It might have been easier on her if she'd known he only loved the Ring as a friend, that his heartache meant nothing about romantic affection, and that her power alone plagued his mind.


	2. Are You Mine?

Frodo shot upright the next morning and went immediately to find Sev. That happened every day for a decently long time: he would shoot out of bed with a strong conviction to tell her that he wanted to court her, and she would make him eat breakfast before he could say anything. They would talk for a long time, at first catching up on all the tedious events going on in the Shire and the little mishaps of the Elves on Valinor.

Often they would end up both laughing impossibly hard, and the Elves often left them alone to that.

Then Sev would take him out to see things. There was so much to explore, so much that it took the better part of a day to explore one Elvish palace. It didn't help that an underground complex of endless libraries and intrinsic treasures filled the earth. Sev had never seen it before, and loved to get lost in the maze with Frodo. There were exits everywhere, and so Sev didn't worry. They eventually took to reading in the evenings, and she took to writing as well. She would scribble quickly, so much that Frodo couldn't even read her handwriting. But she would read them out loud to him, and he put his arm around her as she read. She looked distracted enough that he felt the most at liberty at these times; once he laid his head on her shoulder, just listening to her draconic voice inflecting the air.

She would take him to dinner and then eventually get him into bed, whenever he felt tired. She did her best to heal him, but no tears had come from her since the day he arrived. She managed to drain bits of the poison with her claws, trying to think of other universal poison counteractions. She couldn't think of any off the top of her head. Sev then kissed his pale cheek or his smooth forehead or his soft curls and wished him a good night.

Many of these days passed, and their connection grew immensely strong, solidifying into what might have appeared to be a metal bond. Finally Sev felt ready to tell him about her history, show him the cave of jewels that she loved so . . . and perhaps tell him that she loved him.

She blushed intensely at the thought. No, she couldn't tell him that. Later; much later.

Sev already stood at the head of the rich oak breakfast table when Frodo stepped exhaustedly into the room. Like the rest of the palace, the dining room shone with a white, crystal sheen when the sunrise hit it just right, as it did usually in the mornings. On cloudy days the stone looked more milky. Tapestries of great battles lined the walls, adding color to the white. Sev had commissioned one depicting the destruction of the Ring; it was only her luck that Frodo hadn't yet noticed it, hidden among the many other great battles of Elvish history.

Frodo stumbled to the head of the table. He felt more tired than he had this entire time, probably because he hadn't slept. Sev pressed over his wounds as she did every night, but in this instance he was awake for it. When she buried a kiss in his hair, a tingle of familiarity filled him, not as an unusual form of touch but as though it thrived in his very being.

"Good night, my friend," she'd said.

Frodo couldn't sleep that night, not for energy but for a lack of understanding. He felt impossibly drawn to her, and she became more beautiful to him every day. He really couldn't perceive why.

But he was only too glad to be with her, not suffering at home.

"No pressure to eat quickly," Sev said softly as he sat down. She rubbed his shoulder and sat opposite him; he eyed her rather intently. "I want to take you somewhere special today, and it wouldn't be any good if you were rushed."

Despite that, Frodo ate faster than usual. He wanted to know this special place, and he wanted to tell her that he—well, he realized courtship was not on his mind. He had to tell her that he loved her.

His heart wouldn't stop thudding too quickly after that. She tried to take it slow and he attempted to rush wherever they were headed . . . she finally ground to a halt in the sand. Only a few yards of beach lay between them and the rock that opened up to the cave.

"Frodo, please," she insisted, stepping in front of him. Frodo halted at her hands solidly shoved against his shoulders. She frowned when she felt the wild banging of his pulse in his shoulders, and she placed a pair of fingers to his jugular artery. Frodo's eyes doubled in size at the soft pressure.

She shook her head, amazed at the unusual pace and strength of his heart. "Are you all right?"

He nodded hastily.

"You're worried about something."

Frodo shook his head, and she finally let it go. He could breathe easier when she stepped back. She inhaled and exhaled slowly, suddenly afraid at how she'd touched his neck: she had touched him often back in the Shire, and continued to here, but nothing like that.

"There's something I need to tell you," she said, then paused, uncertain how to continue. "Something about me that I've never told you that you'll need to know before we go in."

Frodo cocked his head. "I thought you told me all there was to know."

Sev cocked an eyebrow, but said nothing. There was always more to learn about a person.

"Not even close." She stood upright. "You are aware that I am Sam's adopted sister, yes?"

Frodo was aware of no such thing, and so she explained. But as she did so, she allowed her wings and claws to sprout. When Frodo noticed them, he panicked, and she had to calm him, tell him it was all right: she was not hurt, she had always been this way. She managed to calm him down long enough to explain that she'd somehow been separated from her parents and brought to be with hobbits, stumbling across his mother, Primula Brandybuck, on the night Frodo was born.

"So you are actually my age," he muttered.

Sev shrugged. "Not entirely. Maturity-wise, not remotely. Actual physical existence from hatch and birth? Yes, exactly your age."

This was a lot for him to take in. Finally, after he sat and processed everything she'd told him, he stared back up at her, slowly figuring things out.

"Burning blood," he murmured. "Pulsing brain . . . wait. Can you breathe fire as other dragons?"

Sev smirked wickedly and exhaled a light plume of crimson flame. Frodo jolted in place and scrambled back; she laughed uncontrollably as he regained his composure.

"Yes, I can!" She continued to laugh—Frodo simply blushed. "And I can fly as well." She nodded to the small boulder. "That sheer piece of rock leads to where I will take you, and the only access is either an uncomfortable swim through tight holes under the beach or through the top, where no creature can climb." She beckoned to him and turned to the rock.

Frodo stared at her, taking in her wings and her scaly feet. He glanced up her back to her head, where a line of horns began trailing down. Her hair looked more blood-red than usual, having adapted to her draconic features. He reached forward and grabbed her arm, surprised when he felt skin there. She glanced up.

His mind worked quickly, for the sharply pessimistic in this case. "Is that why you never courted? Because you could never be with a lad as you were a dragon?" He still couldn't quite wrap his mind around her identity.

Sev shook her head, rather methodical. "I simply knew I would never care for them. Hobbits are simple, and my experiences with them were not kind at first. Your mother, perhaps, but—but no one else wanted me. Gaffer even didn't, not when he realized what I was." Then she swallowed and pulled towards the mountain.

Frodo followed, staring up the sheer piece of stone. He hadn't realized exactly how big it was. It stood thirty times the height of the trees, brushing the clouds. It was more of a mountain, although he didn't suppose Sev saw it that way, being a dragon. He stared around it; it was pure silver, smooth like an egg. Nothing could climb up—she was right.

"Birds wouldn't go in either," Sev mused from beside him. "What's inside is too foreign. I tried to get one in, but they are afraid."

Sev wrapped her arms around him, and he embraced her back as she powerfully flapped her wings. Frodo's stomach flipped: he nearly squeezed the life out of her with the sudden fear he felt. She managed to get him up to the top, then tsked.

"This isn't going to work," she muttered.

Frodo glanced down, only to see that the hole could only fit one person at a time.

"Why not? You could put me in first—," Frodo's voice trembled with the distance between him and the ground. He felt he would be much more comfortable going through the underwater cavern.

"And let you fall all the way to the bottom," she muttered worriedly. "I guess I could get in and catch you, but I don't want to risk missing . . . or letting you slip." She glanced down the side of the egg-shaped mountain. "We'll have to swim."

He breathed thanks to whatever deities were listening as she lowered him safely back to the ground. She moved to take him underwater, but they got a little stuck shoving each other over and simply enjoying the crystal ocean for a little while. The sun began to set while they were out before Sev finally dragged him under. She'd gotten all of her energy out, and now felt amply nervous and solemn.

The water shimmered with moonlight as Sev led him below the surface, under the stretch of sand to a tight hole of rock. She squeezed Frodo through, then followed. Her wings scraped along the side of the tunnel, propelling her forward like a spare pair of arms.

When Frodo finally broke the water's surface, his vision grew speckled. He couldn't see well, and he couldn't breathe well for a minute. Sev didn't have much better lung capacity, but she had enough that she grabbed him by the shoulders and held him steady while he got his consciousness back.

He blinked, disoriented. "I assume that will be worth it."

Sev's wet hair trailed along her shoulders, flatter than Frodo had ever seen it. He cocked his head; her skin shimmered when it was wet. But something in the room illuminated it too.

"Oh, it is," she breathed. She turned him around, and he stared up into the mountain. He gasped—it caused Sev to shudder with delight as he took in the intense gathering of crystal around him. From red to purple to white to brown, diamonds jutted powerfully out of the mountain, all the way up to the distant top hole. The dominant colors were blue, white, and sea green, and they reflected the moonlight across the rest of the crystals, giving the room a seaside sheen. He glanced down at the water, realizing that it, too, glowed a bright blue-green.

Frodo stared up at her. "Sev," he managed. "It's beautiful."

Sev nodded excitedly, then pulled up out of the water. She stepped carefully between the crystals, a safe distance away from Frodo, to shake the water out of her wings. Frodo jumped out as well. Sev snickered; she liked his hair wet. She sat down by the little entrance of water, dipping her legs inside.

Frodo sat with her, wrapped his arms around her leathery wings. She told him how she'd found the cave, pointed out the largest diamond on the opposite side from them. It reminded him of the light of Earendil, and he told her so. He explained to her what had happened to him on his journey . . . reliving every moment of his pain. She felt it rather starkly, and she wrapped her fingers around his injured hand when he finished. He stared at their joined hands, his eyes flooded with tears from the harsh telling. Normally he didn't spout his pain off like that. Sev felt a little guilty for dragging it out of him simply because they were connected, but knew she wanted badly enough to hear.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. She allowed her blood to warm against his skin, heating his chilled, wet flesh. He sighed shakily and leaned against her. She reached up, kissing his cheek.

Only another few moments of silence passed before Frodo cleared his tears away. "Sev," he said finally. She glanced up at him as his heart quickened once again; he'd been meaning to say this for so long. "Sev, I . . . that courtship."

Sev breathed a heavy, exasperated breath. "Yes," she said dryly. "That courtship."

Frodo gawked at her. "I didn't know it offended you so!"

A blush rose to her face. "No! I mean—it did not offend," she amended. "It's simply that I did not know how to handle such an ordeal!"

"It was a simple agreement," Frodo countered.

She shrugged hastily. "Perhaps." Her blush intensified. "But it was hard." She stood abruptly, turning away from him. "You kissed my cheek every day. Your hand was in mine every moment." She began to pace roughly amongst the stones. "For all society knew, I was yours." Her voice escalated. "Perhaps they even thought we meant it! And for Valinor's sake, I would have been willing to be ignorant if I could have believed for one moment that you truly cared about me! Frodo . . ." She stared at him head on. "Frodo, those were the best and worst years of my life, because you were there in front of me yet right out of my reach. And I couldn't begin to explain how painful it was to know that you weren't interested—and so soothing to know that I would feel your lips on my skin if I so much as approached you." She swallowed, turning her gaze sharply away. "It was a falsehood against a truth I wanted, Frodo, and it hurt more than anyone ever would have thought, or you ever intended. It's not your fault that I happened to truly like you, but oh, it was hard. I honestly don't mean to blame you, I swear."

Frodo stood as she spoke, quietly approaching her while she continued cluelessly.

"Cast me off for it if necessary! But I missed you every day you were gone, regretted every moment that I left. I love you, Frodo Baggins, and even that courtship couldn't prove to me otherwise." Immediately after she looked up, Frodo cupped her face in his hands and stared very intently at her.

"That courtship," Frodo said, "was my way of sneaking in."

She lifted an eyebrow, her heart thudding quickly. "Oh?"

Frodo nodded. "I didn't realize this before, but I suppose I just assumed you wouldn't be willing to court me. I cheated my way in, told you it was fake." He swallowed, brushed the hair out of her face. "None of it was. I don't know how much sincerity you felt, but I meant it. All of it." He kissed her cheek softly and laid his forehead against hers. "And only now do I realize that I should have started truly courting you a long time ago. Please, Sev."

When he pulled away at last, Sev's eyes eased open carefully. She didn't know what to say—much less what to think—after that. She finally embraced him slowly. "Of course I will. I told you I loved you, didn't I?"

She tacked enough jocosity into the end of her statement that Frodo held in a bubbled laugh. He moaned in the back of his throat and held her close to him. Not only was Delamarth gone, but the hole she'd left felt filled a little.

"Is this what Gandalf meant when he said I'd be healed?" he murmured.

Sev's brow furrowed. "I hope not."

Frodo startled, backing away. "Why?"

Sev bit her lip, then lowered her arms from around his neck. He thought she intended to distance herself, and so held her closer. Sev cocked an eyebrow, lifting aside his shirt to reveal his Morgul stab.

"No amount of courting is going to repair _that_ ," Sev challenged. She peered inside to the spider sting. "Or that." She pressed her claw-knuckle to his heart; it still held a pulsing ache at her touch. "Or that."

Frodo stared at her, a little perplexed. "They can never be healed. Sev, I waited for years."

She laughed harshly; her claw settled over his Morgul stab. "Never be healed? It's a wonder you're still going at life. Yes, they can be healed. Dragon tears purify all."

His eyes widened. "Even yours?"

She nodded solidly. "This would take a great dose, and I'd have to be right there with you whenever I decided to cry." She sighed and tapped her foot. "But since you showed up, I haven't had the pain or the ecstasy to cry. I guess you just make me content."

"So when he said there were dragons in Valinor, he really meant you were here."

"No. My family lives somewhere on this continent, but I don't really care to go find them."

Frodo peered down at her. "Why not?"

She shrugged. "I feel fine here. I'm not a hobbit or a dragon, and I still feel pain from time to time. But they abandoned me. I feel no need to return." She cocked her head. "You left home for healing as well. Do I not have that right?"

Frodo glanced at the ground, settling down on the stone. "I did," he breathed. "I left Sam."

Sev knelt down beside him, but did not touch him. Leastwise, not for a moment; then she had an overwhelming, protective urge. Female dragons dominated everything about them for the strength and ferocity of their maternal instinct—even for those they were a mate, child, or no relation at all to—and Sev suddenly remembered that night of her hatching, when she had cuddled Frodo close to her and kissed his soft head. Her wing cupped his shoulder, protectively shielding him. She was bound to this hobbit by her blessing, and desired nothing more than to guard him.

"Sam . . . he guided me through it all." Frodo bit his lip; Sev's leathery wing warmed him, rubbed gently on his arm. "He was my best friend on that journey, and I threw him away because of her. She tricked me into more than I ever want again. And yet—and yet the desire is still there." Tears flooded Frodo's eyes. "Even dragon tears cannot wash away her influence, Sev."

A growl built up in Sev's lungs, starting to reverberate around the cavern with a harsh sound. Frodo startled, and Sev shoved her instincts to a halt. The Ring was gone now; Sev could do nothing more for him.

She wrapped her other wing around him as he continued. "I never really wanted her, and I never really loved her, not in the way she wanted. She became a creature, an actual being, to me—a friend, I suppose, but she wanted more."

Sev's eyes narrowed. "I wish she still existed."

Frodo glanced down at her.

"So I could eat her."

Frodo laughed slightly; Sev was dead serious, but she started laughing too. He laid his arm about her shoulders, squeezing her slightly.

"What's the worst she did to you?" Sev asked finally. "Assuming you're willing to tell me."

He settled. "I'm afraid I can't."

She stared up at him, sympathy and pain flooding her eyes.

"But there were things she told me she was not capable of doing," he said, still a little mystified. "She said a kiss was all she wanted, as though anything more did not lay in her realm of want."

Sev slapped her forehead. "Of course she couldn't! I wish I would have realized that. Her desires—being a Ring—would have been completely psychological. That was Sauron's emotional peak, apparently, all he understood about affection." Sev shook her head. "She was right." Then Sev breathed a sigh of relief before she paused. "So it must have been all psychological for you as well."

Frodo shrugged. "I didn't realize that at first, that kissing her had mostly mental effect." Then he halted, his face white. He struggled for words until he realized Sev didn't react at all, so he continued. "I guess I didn't realize being around you would be different." His pale face quickly grew red.

Sev snickered sheepishly. "She's a Ring, I'm a dragon, little bit of a difference." She smirked. "I wonder what happened when you fell in love with an actual hobbit girl."

"I never did."

Sev lifted an eyebrow.

"But Sam did."

Sev started so hard that her wings flared up. Frodo laughed as she stared up at him, shocked. "Who? When? Where?"

Frodo told her of Sam's wedding. Following that they talked about a number of things, mostly memories in the Shire, as the night wore on. Finally Frodo yawned, and Sev buried her wing under his arm to hold him upright. His head slacked onto her shoulder; he slipped off to sleep quickly after that, and she wrapped her arms around him. She swayed slightly, humming again.

"You're only sleeping . . . what can you see on the horizon? Why did the white gulls call? Across the sea our pale moon rises; the ships had come to carry you home."

Frodo nestled against her, and his curls brushed her neck. She whimpered with a sudden stroke of desire to protect him, but from what she did not know.

"I love you." Sev buried her nose in his hair, kissed the top of his head. This time it felt warmer and more familiar than usual with the revelation she'd gained about how much he cared for her; she reached down and pecked his nose. "You're safe here—rest well, Frodo Baggins."

He awakened a few minutes later, and she lifted him up to the top hole of the small mountain. She took him above the clouds that night, showed him the moon from up there. He was tired, but awake enough to see it. She dropped him off at the balcony before his room, some hours before dawn.

Frodo scrambled off the bed and to his feet when she moved to leave. He grabbed her wrist, and she paused at the windowsill. She sat on the balcony railing as he cautiously neared her.

"Sev . . ." He tried to search for the right words. He squeezed her hand. "I'm glad you're with me."

She grinned. "Admittedly I'm glad I am too." She frowned as she fingered aside his shirt. "We'll have to do something about those cuts."

Frodo cocked his head, nearing her. "You came here to be healed—from being a hobbit?"

Sev nodded slowly. "But I didn't do it, because they told me I would forget you and move on." She swallowed, cupping his moon-pale cheek. "I didn't want to forget you, even if it was hard to realize I would never really belong to you."

He slipped his arms around her waist. "Are you saying I have a dragon now? Are you mine, Sev?"

She kissed his forehead, trying to reinitiate her blessing. It certainly worked; Frodo's skin prickled. "Only if you want me," she whispered. "And if you do, I'm all yours for as long as you need me."

Frodo embraced her gently. She wrapped her wings around him.

"Good night, Sev," he said, backing away. He had thought to kiss her, but somehow felt that a little sudden. He hadn't known how much she'd really loved him for very long—he still felt very new to this.

She smiled gently as she watched him slip into bed. "Good night, Frodo."


	3. Forest

**Diem Kieu: (1st) - Thanks so much! :D Admittedly I'm not one much for beaches and sunshine, but hey, I ain't Frodo. ;)  
Well, it's for you; I'm glad you like it! X)  
Her relation to Smaug is rather detached, but he is referenced in this story . . . dang, maybe I'll add something to that! *idea explosion* I'll get on that. And, well, the Elves are the only creatures on the island, so it doesn't really matter who sees her. :) The only way she hides it from Frodo is by that spell she used in ****Chaaempier** **. If that answers your question. XP  
(2nd) - Muahahahahaaaa! There are one-shots to be written! There should be more of that conflict in the future . . . as confusing/exciting things are introduced . . . I'm going to put a big marker on that chapter.  
Well, there are kissing scenes, I can say that much. XD**

The Elves had a dancing festival the next night, as they did every night, but this time Frodo and Sev were actually present for it. They danced and sang the night away in one of the main rooms of the largest palace, a marble ziggurat at the center of the forest. Sev put away her draconic features that night on behalf of her hosts, and Frodo found he missed them a little.

As they stepped outside, laughing and a little exhausted, Frodo sighed and squeezed her shoulders. He pointed up at the moon, an ominous sliver in the clouding sky.

"Could you fly me up there?"

Sev cocked an eyebrow. "To touch it? I have no idea."

"Don't you ever wonder what it's like? How big it really is? How or why it changes shape like that?" Frodo glanced down at her, but she didn't turn to look at him. She shook her head.

"Maybe if I were a whole dragon I could reach it," she murmured thoughtfully. "I just want to be healed." She bit her lip, looking away. "But I suppose to be healed is to lose you . . . to have you is to experience minor pain." She smiled and glanced back up at him. "That's worth it, right?"

Frodo shrugged, a little afraid now. "Well, I think it's worth it, but I'm not the dragon that happened to be gifted with the beauty of a hobbit." He shook a little as the statement came out, simply because it was rather difficult for him to say such things. He didn't do it much.

Sev blushed powerfully. "Well, thank you, but if anything I was 'gifted' with the plainer hobbit features."

"Sev, I mean it," he insisted, turning her to face him. Her wings flickered out from her back, stretching out of place. He tipped up her jaw with his finger, gently searching her eyes. "Please try to understand; I do love you. I don't know if I made that clear enough you that yesterday, but I do, and I have for a long time."

Sev bit her lip; she'd never been told that by anyone.

"Well, that's a miracle," she whispered, leaning her forehead against his. He held her close, feeling the span of her wings from flesh to scale on his arms. There was at least a half-foot of skin stretched onto the wingbone. "It was the apples and cheese, wasn't it?" she added.

Frodo chuckled, stifling a snicker. Then he burst out laughing as she continued. "I saw your eyes light up! You only like me for my food, don't you?" She laughed as well, pecking his cheek. "But it isn't that." Her voice grew wondering.

He shook his head. "No . . . you've understood me better than anyone. And look; we both ended up in the same place to find healing."

Sev grinned. "How about that? Both scarred. But at least you have some trace of normalcy."

Frodo shook his head again. "I'm actually cracked, evidently. And I'm proud of that, you know."

They talked for another long time, simply holding each other as the sliver of moonlight disappeared. They did not need light to converse. Soon, however, she told Frodo that she needed to go running with all of this energy building up inside of her. He ran behind her as she tore off into the forest, and soon she rose into the sky, laughing and calling out to him. He continued running, staring up at her as she soared above the trees. The moonlight returned, illuminating the sheen of her wings and her hair.

Frodo smiled, content just to watch her. Then her laugh turned into a piercing shriek as her form crumpled to a huge complex of rope and tumbled from the sky.

Frodo's eyes widened. "Sev!" He raced through the trees, ripping through the branches and doing his best not to trip. "Sev! Sev, where are you?!"

He followed her cries. "Let me go!" A plume of fire illuminated the trees a few feet away, and Frodo turned suddenly to follow it. "Let go! What do you want?!" She turned her cry to the air. "Frodo!"

"I'm coming!" He turned around a final tree trunk only to see Sev digging her heels into the forest floor against a huge chain net, wrapped around her entire body. A tree nearby crackled with fire, shining into the eyes of five hooded strangers. Pale fingers grabbed her wings, her body, and the chains, dragging her away.

Frodo reached for Sting, only to realize he'd left his belongings in the Shire. "Sev!" He tore forward, grabbing one of the strangers, straining to yank his arm away from her. "Let her go!"

Sev moved to breathe fire again, only for one of her captors to reach between the chain holes and slam a muzzle over her mouth. She strained with a muffled scream.

Frodo's eyes narrowed; he'd never really felt so irked before, and he suddenly grabbed the cloak of one of the strangers, dragging him down to the hobbit's level. Frodo balled a fist and smacked the man in the face. A familiar, chilling screech filed the air, and Frodo gasped: his Morgul stab stung, freezing his whole shoulder, and he collapsed to the ground.

He could barely hear Sev's cries through his muddling mind. She hadn't broken through her muzzle, but he could imagine—horrified—what she was saying.

"Frodo! Help me, please!"


	4. Island

**Diem Kieu: Weeeell, more they visited the Undying Lands . . . XD Yeah. But they do exist. They're a little off from it, if you will.  
AAAAAAHHH! That reference just gave me chills; that was awesome! And the dramatic image, and the intensity . . . "I teared up. Super tears, man, that was me." -Superman, ****_SuperCafe Batman vs. Superman_**

Frodo awakened the next morning in bed. He hoped last night had only been a dream, or at least the end a nightmare after perhaps collapsing the night before. He sat up only to groan loudly: his Morgul stab ached miserably. It ignited his other wound, and he slacked back to black out again.

He caught a glance of the room around him; it was not his room. White beds lined the walls, and he thought it looked like some sort of medical chamber. Soon enough, Gandalf, Elrond, and a female Elf Frodo didn't recognize broke through the double doors on one side. Frodo glanced down at his fingers, and then his eyes widened: they were covered in ash and soot. Scraping itches covered him, and he peered at one on his lower arm. He gingerly traced the flesh there; he'd never been burned so horribly in his life. The skin there was branded by some lick of flame, now angry red and set apart by a dead rim of pale flesh. It was bumpy and squishy to the touch, and Frodo sucked in a breath when it responded irritably to his finger. When he shifted, he felt such irritation—although not quite so painful as on his arm—all over his legs, back, chest, arms, everywhere. He reached up and traced his cheek; the one up on his face spanned even his nose and part of his lips.

"What happened?" he breathed as the female elf lifted his hand to rub some cooling salve on it.

"We heard you calling out for Sevanaan," Gandalf said gravely. "By the time we got out there she was nowhere to be found, and you were caught in a fire. It's a miracle we retrieved you, and put the fire out."

"Now our question for you," Elrond interjected, "is simply: what happened?"

Frodo shook his head, disbelieving, as he sank back into the bed. "She was flying. I could see her." His neck twisted, and he stared out into the forest. He could see the little burned patch, trees and grass scarred forever until it somehow found the capacity to heal. "Then she fell, and I followed . . . but something had caught her. Five somethings, men. They had a chain net around her. She breathed a bit of fire." He swallowed. "They took her. I fell unconscious; it was my Weathertop wound." He shook his head. "Sev . . ."

The female Elf rubbed some of the salve over his back, and he immediately felt better there; apparently most of the burns weren't as horrible as the one on his arm. That one would stick around for a while, but he could feel the flesh mending on the others she touched.

Elrond's eyebrows narrowed. "Your Morgul stab?"

Frodo nodded slowly.

Elrond grabbed Gandalf's shoulder. "There is nothing dark enough in this land to initiate such." He stared back at Frodo. "We will do our best to find Sevanaan. She is a friend of the Elves, and if she is anywhere in Valinor she will be found."

Frodo settled against the pillows stacked behind him, doing his best not to groan. "Thank you, Lord Elrond. I will join you as soon as I am able."

"No," Gandalf insisted. "You will remain here until we find her, and it shall not be long." He and Elrond spun away, both barking orders to the Elves within seconds. Soon divisions of Elves—none of them armed, for there were no weapons in Valinor—began marching out of the great palaces in all directions.

Frodo bit his lip, staring outside. "Please come back."

Bilbo visited him often while the troops of Elves were gone, leastwise until Frodo felt well enough to get out a little bit. He still had a huge burn on his shoulder that stung almost constantly, as well as one on the front of his neck, and the one on his arm. At least, however, he felt well enough to walk. He spent most of the day roaming what Gandalf would let him, calling out for Sev and feeling hopeless.

Days passed. Weeks melted away. Frodo mournfully turned his gaze to the sky, waiting to see a crimson glimmer in the piercing sunlight, but no such thing happened. He jolted every time a bird flew overhead, peering until he knew he was only deceiving himself.

He swam under the ocean into the diamond cave often, spent some days just staring at the crystals, as though they could magically bring her back. He spent every day for the better part of a year in that cave, waiting, wishing, hoping, losing the motivation to go on.

Frodo only stopped visiting the cave when the Elves found him in his bedroom in the middle of one night and told him that Bilbo seemed more frail than usual. Frodo immediately ran to his uncle's side. Bilbo smiled tiredly at him and gripped his hand.

"Do not worry, my boy," he whispered. "I am not gone yet." He breathed deeply. "The Elves tell me I will be asleep a great deal, but I have one more thing I must see before I am gone."

Frodo cocked his head. "And what is that, uncle?"

Bilbo exhaustedly cupped Frodo's cheek. "To see you healed, my boy."

Frodo swallowed, unsure what that meant. All he could think about right now was getting Sev back, but he assumed Bilbo meant his physical scars.

"Your eyes . . ." Bilbo mused. "They look worn, older than you are. I want to see them bright again."

"I don't know if that's possible, Uncle," Frodo said solemnly.

Bilbo wheezed a laugh. "Then I'm immortal! I'll be here forever!" Frodo smiled gently, laying his hand over Bilbo's. Tears welled in his eyes, trickling down his cheeks.

"Oh, my lad," Bilbo breathed. "She will be all right."

Frodo sighed shakily. "I only hope so; she sounded so frightened. I love her, Bilbo, and I don't want her to get hurt."

"Then don't let her," Bilbo insisted. "Go find her, Frodo my lad. Ask the Lady Galadriel, for she may know."

Frodo kissed Bilbo's forehead at their parting later that day, and he set out back to the sea. He sat against one of the trees and stared up at the sky until his eyes hurt and his heart ached. The world faded from bright and pristine to dark and calming. The ocean stood tied to the shore, as though trying to escape its eternal push and pull. It strained against the constant, inescapable tide . . . like its very point in life made the ocean exhausted and teary-eyed . . . and entertained the shore in some sick, captivating way.

Frodo blinked and stared up at the stars. He hoped with everything he had that Sev could see them too. There was no moon tonight, but that didn't make the sky any less real. Tears pricked Frodo's eyes as he sank against the tree behind him and wished that she would come back.

"Please be all right," he murmured. Tears trailed down his cheeks. "Please."

Sev's eyes were red and raw. After a year she thought it wouldn't hurt anymore. But even as she stared out of the narrow window, barred so even squeezing through was no option, she found herself crying again.

She could hear her captors' voices in her mind, everything from gruff to smooth, male to female.

 _Gutless wimp. Puny dragon. Half-halfling._

The woman's voice entered her mind, and she shuddered.

 _Poor, sweet thing,_ she taunted. Sev staggered against the wall of her cell. _He's never coming for you. None of them ever will._

She stared out at the stars. Oh, how she missed flying, how she missed being out amongst the free, clear air and the stimulating scents of the trees and sea. She saw plenty of dull sea, never any land but the ash-like ground of the island she resided upon. Even so, after her first three attempts to run away they'd finally stopped allowing her out of the palace.

"Save me, please," she whispered. Then she stared down at the floor; she knew perhaps only Frodo would ever find her, but she knew to have him do it would be to endanger him. "Unless it hurts him. Keep him far away from here, and save me if you can."

"Sev, my dear," a chilling voice whispered.

Sev stiffened sharply, but dared not move otherwise. She wanted to tell him to go away, to bare her teeth and insist that he leave her alone.

But that would only drive him harder.

She shuddered in the darkness as he gripped her hand.

 _Protect Frodo, please._ She daren't think about her own circumstances.

Finally Frodo decided to do what Bilbo suggested, and he went to Galadriel for help. She told him she would open up the mirror to find Sev if the other Elves returned without her.

Three more months passed before the first search party returned, weary and worn, without any sign of her. They had swept the entire south portion of the continent. Eight more parties came back over time, all with the same grave news. One had visited the dragons, asking if she had been taken by them, but she had not.

Malachthar, one noble under the Emperor of dragons, recognized her description as that of his daughter, and he swore to do his best to find her, but even he could not locate her. She had disappeared from the entire continent.

The moment this news was brought to Frodo, he slipped into Galadriel's chamber and insisted that she find Sev. Galadriel agreed, somewhat hesitant despite how urgently her people and the collective colonies of dragons strove to find her. As she opened up her mirror to search the entirety of the world for Sev, the dragons arrived at the Elvish city in Valinor and took Frodo aside to ask him questions about her disappearance.

None of them had ever seen the strangers he described, and the dragons had existed there for over a hundred years so far. They knew every inch of the land, every creature that resided there, of which there were few under burden of civilization. All were completely puzzled.

Galadriel stepped out into the courtyard where Frodo spoke with Sev's father.

"I do not know why you call her Sev," the large, golden dragon snorted. His voice rumbled through the trees.

"Her name is Sevanaan," Frodo said softly.

Malacthar's eyes narrowed. "Reject? Who gave her this name?"

Frodo shrugged. "I know not. My mother called her Therra."

Malachthar swiped it aside. "That is not her name either. We named her Chaaempier, the Lost Heir." He mused on that for a moment. "I suppose no one would have known to call her such." He sighed, laying his head on the ground beside where Frodo stood. The hobbit shied away, but Malachthar cupped him in his claw, keeping him up close. The dragon's whisper pierced the air almost inaudibly; for such a large creature, it surprised Frodo how quiet he could be.

"I see it in you. You care for her more than I ever did." He sighed. "I knew where she was, and I left without her, for I thought her a disgrace to our kind."

"But now you feel the better for her?" Frodo prompted.

Malachthar chuckled sourly. "Certainly not. She is not one of us; she is as gentle and fragile as the rest of you mortals. Even the Elves do not share the grace and power of the mightiest of dragons. She will never be one of us."

Frodo's eyes narrowed. "It's all she wants, Malachthar! She came here to be healed by you, to become a dragon as she was meant to!"

"She is not worthy. Perhaps the name Sevanaan does suit her, for she will never be accepted by any dragon. She is a weakling, and apparently a coward for she could not fight five mere, unarmed warriors."

He said this so nonchalantly Frodo wondered if this could possibly be Sev's father.

"I marvel, however," Malachthar continued, "that you care for her so. You could be an acceptable caretaker . . . assuming you could find her again."

If all dragons were this arrogant and condescending, Frodo realized he would much rather Sev be born in her circumstances than theirs. He stiffened slightly and nodded to Malachthar as he saw Galadriel.

"If you will excuse me, great Malachthar," Frodo said, containing a small outburst, "I will find her and return her to you. Perhaps you can judge her worthiness then; perhaps you will see how truly valuable she is."

Malachthar laughed, frightening the Elf guards. The birds in the nearby trees scattered at the smooth, dark sound. "Valuable? She is a misfit with no skill and no strength, not compared to the dragons, not compared to the Elves, not even compared to you! She came here to seek healing, you say? She obviously couldn't handle a little bit of pain as well as most in that other world can. They suffer heartache, loss, trauma, and she came back here because she had some unnatural features and a bit of physical pain?" He shook his head. "She is not worthy, Frodo Baggins. I doubt you could prove anything else to me." The dragon turned to fly away. "And don't let her trick you into thinking she's worthy of you either. I pray you never find her, for it will be a waste of your time as it has been mine." Before Frodo could say another word, Malachthar gave a great _whap_ of his wings against the ground and sprang high into the air.

Frodo glared after the retreating dragon. He didn't look at Galadriel as she approached.

 _I could prove more than I wish to, but if she wants to become a dragon I will show her worth to you._

He turned to the Lady of Light.

"I've found her," Galadriel said simply, gesturing for him to follow.

Frodo raced after her up the stairs to her chamber. She glided gracefully; Frodo dared not get ahead of her hesitant, flowing strides, much as he wished to be out the door as quickly as possible.

She gestured to her mirror, and Frodo stepped hastily up to its side. He forced himself to slow, knowing that to rush could be fatal. He glanced inside and saw a black palace, built after the fashion of Barad-dur. Four spines protruded from the top of the central tower; seven other towers, all sleek with ridges carved into the sides, surrounded the keep and descended, each at a different height. Blood-red lights illuminated each window, and a huge wall coupled with the lower floors of the building composed the majority of the structure.

"Where is this place?" Frodo breathed. The look of it didn't frighten him so much as the pull of it on his neck . . . as though he still wore the Ring. He swallowed and grabbed at his chest, but the Ring was not there.

Galadriel pinched her fingers, and the image backed out to show a black island. The castle sat in the middle on a mountain of solid obsidian. Ashes composed the ground, made most obvious to Frodo when a rumble and a red cloud exploded beneath the island. Lava rose to the surface of the water, blackening into solid ground at an incredibly fast rate. Ash and smoke popped out of every tower, spreading in a thick, black cloud above the castle. Some pieces fell to the ground, covering the cooling lava in black and white dust. Ghost trees composed a haunting maze around the palace.

"It is a place caught between death and life," Galadriel said, "a Shadow realm." She waved her hand over the mirror, and it drew out even farther. Frodo saw the full composition of Middle Earth, Arda on one side and connected to Valinor by only a strip of ice far to the north. Galadriel gestured towards the southeast of Valinor, where a black patch stood.

"Middle Earth is protected from this island by the strength of the Elves. It is the island Amarth Orodruin, the underwater volcanic channel from Mount Doom to a place far away, where those protected from death by spells on the lava are trapped in forms not of their own."

Frodo's eyes widened: amarth. "What is she doing there?"

Galadriel glanced down into the bowl, but as the image changed Frodo staggered back. A beam of golden light shot out from the bowl, blocking the water.

A voice hissed in Elvish through the room, in layers and layers escalating almost to a screech. Frodo clamped his hands over his ears and ducked away as the hissing continued. Galadriel stood erect until the hiss shouted its last word and was gone.

Frodo rose slowly to his feet; the bowl was empty of its water now. "What was that?"

Galadriel stared gravely at the steaming bowl. "The Master of Amarth. Whatever they want Sevanaan for, it cannot be for good. Chances are excellent, Frodo, that if you do not go after her she will either die or become one of them."

Frodo flew out the door. Sev had already been there presumably for over a year, and he didn't want to think of what could have happened. He spun around suddenly, poking his head back into Galadriel's room.

"Can you see her?" he whispered. "Is she safe?"

Galadriel shook her head. "The hissing you heard was the island's refusal to show me; she must be alive."

Frodo thanked her hurriedly and sprang away from the door, calling out for Gandalf.

They threw preparations together immediately. Sev's mother, Aluekrai, arrived moments later with the return of her mate back home. Maternal instinct attacked her with the realization that her daughter was alive; it had been her favorite egg. Frodo found he preferred Aluekrai to Malachthar—perhaps not all dragons were irritating.

"I'll fly you as far as I can," she said. "I know of which island you speak, and I dare not go beyond the shores of Valinor." She bent her neck, allowing Frodo to slip up between her black spines. Frodo ran his fingers across her crimson scales; she looked a great deal like Sev probably would have.

She turned and eyed him. "Malachthar was right," she mused. "I'm glad she's had someone to care for her this whole time. And such a noble creature as the Ringbearer; I indeed hope you will continue to look after her."

"Assuming there is something left to look after," Frodo murmured.

Aluekrai straightened to fly away, but Elrond reached up and laid a hand over her neck.

"Would it not be wise, as this island is so dangerous, to send Elf warriors with Frodo?"

Aluekrai narrowed her eyes. "You are unarmed. Your Elves will perish." She glanced back at Frodo. "But this one has a dragon's first blessing, and needs nothing else. I will come back and bring an army to destroy the island if he does not return within a year."

Gandalf shook his head. "A year is too long."

"He will have to walk back. Any shorter will be making assumptions too quickly and sacrifice many warriors, if not a great deal of time and effort. And do not worry; I will begin assembling them immediately. He is tied to me by my first daughter; I will feel it if he is in fatal danger." Before anyone could protest further, Aluekrai nodded her graceful, red head and sprang into the air.

Frodo clasped one of her spines for dear life, and the rush of wind nearly blew his pack down to the fading ground below.

Aluekrai chuckled, sending warm ripples through Frodo's body. "The first part is the most difficult, or so my hatchlings have told me."

Frodo swallowed, waiting for his breath and confidence to return before he attempted to make conversation. Once she leveled off an uncomfortable distance above the clouds, Frodo finally managed a few words.

"And how many hatchlings do you have?"

Aluekrai's eyes rolled back in thought. "Perhaps eighty thousand, give or take a few hundred." She waved off Frodo's shocked glance. "If you marry my daughter, Ringbearer, do not be surprised if she gives birth to at least four eggs a year. As a mortal, perhaps she has at least that capacity."

Frodo's jaw dropped. "I mean no disrespect, my lady, but . . ." He didn't know how to finish. He'd been about to assure her that he hadn't thought about marrying Sev, much less starting a family with her, but that was untrue. Now the concept of dragon eggs—a given idea, now that he thought about it—sickened him just a bit.

The dragon laughed. "But what? Chaaempier's betrothed would not have her."

"Betrothed?!" Frodo paled and sat back. He hadn't thought about that either. Being the daughter of a noble, of course Sev would have an arranged match. He swallowed—much as he wanted her to be happy, he almost didn't want them to even try and heal her.

Aluekrai descended some hours later upon the white shore of Valinor. Frodo shuddered at the sight of Amarth in the distance, again disturbed not by the view itself but of the sickening tug on his heart.

The dragon let him off next to a small—it couldn't have even been called a ship. It was a canoe with two oars, a rather ambivalent shade of woody brown. It looked acceptably bright here, but under the shadow of ash and smoke it would appear weak and fragile, like Frodo felt.

"I almost fear to let you go," Aluekrai murmured, then paused. "Bring my daughter back safely, Frodo Baggins."

He bowed to her. "May the grace of your kind accompany your efforts." He remembered with an escalating pulse that Aluekrai planned to bring back a dragon army, and he anticipated that greatly. He only hoped they would be able to make it to the island in time.

Aluekrai turned and immediately flew away, shouting behind her, "I shall bring the army the moment it is ready!"

Frodo watched her vanish into the clouds, then took a deep breath. He set his pack gently down into the little craft. He'd been in a situation somewhat like this before, and it caught him off guard.

 _I wish the Ring had never come to me._ He could still feel her in his palm, and he swallowed. _I wish none of this had happened!_

Gandalf began to speak to him, but then Sev's voice in his mind from her capture cut him off.

 _Frodo! Help me, please!_

Frodo's eyes snapped open, and he shoved the little ship into the water. He leaped inside, took another deep breath, and began to paddle. He didn't entirely understand why this terrified him so much, save he remembered the Ring so well. Every moment he approached the island, the pull grew stronger . . . as did the voice of Delamarth, the dark tone he'd blocked from his mind since setting out towards Valinor.

 _Frodo . . . Frodo, my Precious . . ._

He shook his head madly, trying to drive the voice from his mind.

"No; leave me be!"

He scrambled against what felt like a lingering, taunting kiss to his cheek. Her laugh escalated on the air, chilling him. Smoke began to gather around him, a bank of black fog. Why couldn't he just let her go if she did not exist anymore?

Frodo bit his lip, then stared out at the huge palace in the center of the island. His jaw dropped; it was bigger than he'd anticipated. What he thought were little windows now looked three times his height. The entire structure stretched higher than a mountain into the sky, and the complex sprawled over a rise of obsidian stone at the center of the island. The ghost forest met him just off the shore, and he dragged his ship up almost to the edge of them on the ashy shore. The moment he stepped off, the ash drenched his feet in shadow. He shook some off, but they stuck rather adamantly to his feet. He turned and walked deliberately into the forest.


	5. Nightmare

**Diem Kieu: Well, she's got a lot more to heal than that, unfortunately. XP  
WHOO! Sev is ready! Sev will read!  
Oh, absolutely; thanks! :D The dragons are interesting people . . . we'll see more about them. XD Yeah, her betrothed will probably come up later, currently going through editing processes with that.  
Thanks!**

 **All right, so this chapter is the weirdest by far; after this is pretty much angst and sappiness, kind of like** **One Ring to Desire Him.** **This is the part that is most considered "ethereal," as it strays the most from canon. But it gets better, I promise. :)**

When Frodo fingered the trees, they were hard as iron. The branches wouldn't even bend. He peered at them, wondering, until a fierce cry cut off his curiosity. He flinched, only to see a skeletal bird with faded, black feathers watching him from the very top of the tree. His eyes widened; the bird was enormous, taking up the entire peak of the tree. It stared back at him with white eyes, completely void of substance. He stared around in horror—every tree, now that he looked, seemed to have one of the awful creatures at the top. Their gazes followed him as he softly picked his way through the forest.

He approached the sheer, obsidian cliff, staring with terrifying anticipation at the stone. He exhaled slowly, then walked right up to the cliff.

When he got close, he spotted a rope ladder leading up to the gateway. He began climbing, but stepping on it caused the ladder to lower one level. He flinched and backed into the black rock as a horn sounded, and the heavy doors swung open at the top of the small mountain. He waited for an army to come pouring out after him, but no such thing happened.

Frodo carefully began climbing the rope, cautiously awaiting a warning sign. He didn't feel the palace was well-guarded, but then he realized perhaps no one on Valinor save the dragons knew about Amarth, and so hopefully they needed no guard. He slipped up over the rim of the obsidian, scrambling for a handhold and finding nothing. His palms and feet grew slick as he shoved himself over the edge.

The doors towered over him at least as high as one of the Elvish ziggurats. He stared out into the smoke behind him, at the ocean he would perhaps not see again until he fought the way out for Sev . . . unless he could appease whatever her captors wanted.

Even as the doors eased shut a few minutes later—as he walked down the grand, empty, black halls—a voice filled his mind. He strained against it, backing into the wall.

 _Welcome to Amarth._

He didn't recognize the voice, but he didn't have to; it still terrified him.

Frodo couldn't have known where to begin to look for Sev, but he thought to find the dungeon would be a decent idea. He ducked into the shadows when the hooded strangers from before passed by, two of them. He bit his lip: Sev was definitely here.

Eight more people, all dressed in black and acting rather giddy, passed with the two strangers, and Frodo cocked his head. Somehow all in the room, he realized, were his size, but they were not hobbits. He searched himself for a change and could find nothing; the ground did not seem abnormally far away, and he did not feel taller.

Frodo inspected the people, and decided perhaps listening in to their conversation would help a little. It couldn't hurt, as long as he didn't make any noise.

He crept along the wall as they walked. The hooded men led the group into a side chamber, where they chatted endlessly. Frodo strained to pick out one conversation or another.

"The entire palace will be there!"

" . . . grand and bright this time . . ."

"I could tame the creature."

Frodo shook his head. But even as he did, his throat caught with a plume of dust from one of the men kicking excitedly at the wall. Frodo coughed despite his strain not to, and the entire group looked up at him. Frodo swallowed, unsure if he ought to back away slowly or run.

One of the men—a rather burly man with more hair on his arms than Frodo had ever seen on anything but a dwarf in his life—approached him. The hooded ones did not move, much less acknowledge him as they sorted through huge trunks on the opposite side of the black room.

"Well, now, stranger," the man drawled, "I didn't know you were coming with us." He extended a hand, and Frodo shook it. "Let me guess: you were an orc too."

Frodo stared at him, flustered. "Pardon?"

"That's what they all say," the man said with a wink, and the others laughed. His irises glowed red, but otherwise he looked pleasant enough. Frodo shuddered. "Come on; get ready with us!"

Frodo cocked his head. "Ready for what?"

They all paused. "The dance tonight," another man said, an erect, pale, thin man with a large nose. "The man and lady of the palace will be there. Every creature existing here will be present, the prisoners to be showcased." There were howls and crows from the other men.

Frodo hesitantly peeled away from the wall. "You wouldn't happen to be familiar with a prisoner by the name of Sev, would you? That will be there?"

Most of the men began crowing harder. Frodo lifted an eyebrow, a little irked. The burly man shoved him, laughing.

"Of course she will! That's why we go, you know."

The halfling's gaze darkened, but the men couldn't have noticed less. Frodo didn't want to know what they were excited about; at least she would be there.

The man ruffled Frodo's hair. "Don't worry, curls; she's the spectacle of the night, you know. You can't miss her." He tsked. "Shame the man of the castle won't let us talk alone to her anymore."

"She fried the last man alive that tried to hold her, you know."

Frodo shivered; he didn't like the idea of one of these creatures touching her, but perhaps some were better than others, and she seemed to protect herself well enough. But the men didn't stop their story there.

"Now he's one of them skullbirds!" They laughed uncontrollably, staring outside through the little barred window. Frodo bit his lip.

"And why is she so special?" he managed.

The burly man spoke to him aside, or at least feigned to, as the hooded men began handing out clothes of bright colors. "They say her father was a dragon and her mother was a woman. Don't ask me how that works. But she's very strong, and a lot of fun."

"She used to be," one of the other men whined. "When you're her guard you can have her, but otherwise the man of the castle's too protective. She's his special pet. But when he's not around she really is a lot of fun to mess around with."

Frodo's stomach boiled, and his fists clenched at his sides.

One of the wiry men spoke up excitedly. "Hey! Crackface told me he kissed her once."

The men gathered around, whooping and prodding him to continue.

"Well, he looked all pale and fright-eyed when he said it, but he said she was real soft, and kind of like fire." His voice drifted off, and most of the men sank down. Frodo accepted a pack of clothes from one of the hooded men with a curt nod, then glared back at the group.

"I wish I could kiss her," one of them mumbled. A murmur of assent rose.

"I bet he didn't kiss her," the original storyteller spoke out. "I bet she just bit him."

They began guffawing at that. Frodo felt a strong blush creeping on to his face, and he turned away sharply to get disguised, or so he rationalized. He would probably be able to get closer to her dressed as one of these men than anything. The burly man grabbed his shoulder and shoved him around.

"Hey, he's as red as a cherry!" More laughter. "What's the matter, curls?"

Frodo regained his composure as well and quickly as he possibly could manage. "Suffice it to say I am jealous of this gentleman you speak of." He paused. "To have been bitten by this Sev you speak of . . . why, I do believe I would trade that for being stuck on the outside not touching her at all."

He was convinced they were drunk, for they started laughing again. He felt a little proud, but mostly sick, for having tapped into their sense of humor a little.

The burly man clapped his shoulder. "Doesn't he just talk so proper!" He ruffled Frodo's hair again and shoved him away. "Don't we all just want to be bitten." He sighed. "You're not bad. Have you seen Sev yet?"

Frodo shook his head.

A snicker followed. "Well, you're in for something special. She's a little terrifying . . . once you get to know her."

Frodo backed away from their laughter into a dark corner.

"Sev, are you all right?" he breathed.

Sev glared darkly out into the smoky sea. They were showcasing her . . . again. One possessive latcher was bad enough without all the other men picking on her. At least that had somewhat come to a halt, leastwise in public, but her personal guard was no help.

The other women primped around her. She need do nothing to her appearance to be noticed, but the others worked extremely hard. They did not wear chains; they didn't want to run away. The attention they were paid as a spectacle of aesthetics was enough of a trap for them. She watched them, disgusted, as they heightened their perfect facial features and checked their black outfits over and over again to ensure they were flattering and sleek enough.

Even Sev had been forced into one of those. She flapped her wings, irritated, and the other girls backed away. The outfit cut off her ability to breathe, potentially on purpose. But she had ripped up another one to add fabric to this one; the original didn't cover her up like she wanted, originally designed to allow her wings and horns to be free. But she didn't want that, not for the men's benefit.

Now she looked ragged, but the men still wouldn't leave her alone. She blamed the other women, although she knew the changes were more detrimental to her appearance than enhancing: they added small, black, dagger/claw attachments to her eyelashes to make her eyes stand out, as well as shadows to her eyes and lines to her cheek and neck. They tried elsewhere, but she managed to singe one of the ladies when they made the attempt. No one moved to do so again.

She rubbed her lips for the sting. She had so far avoided being kissed, but it was only a matter of time. Her guards would rub them raw just to feel them, and under orders from the master of the castle, for she refused above all else to let him kiss her.

The night had not yet begun, but she could hear the jeers and the crowing. She sobbed to herself; she wanted to get out of here.

She refused to let her thoughts wander to Frodo. She already knew he would be disgusted to see her like this if she ever made it out alive.

Her guards stepped in, whistling. The ladies waved at them as they stepped out the other door, and Sev shot to her feet to follow. But, as usual, the men caught her at it and grabbed her leash, yanking back tightly. Sev screeched as one of the men grabbed her by the waist.

"Come on, you reptile," he snickered.

She hissed at him, smacking him in the face with her wing. Getting her out there was usually this difficult, but they could never really manage to tie her down. Six guards leaped on her chains before she could fly away, and she wrestled agianst them. One grabbed her jaw, and she strained back. He clamped a cuff around her mouth before she could exhale a stream of fire at him; he already had charred skin on his dominant hand from that experience.

Loud whimpers escaped her as they dragged her away, thrashing and beating against the walls and floor as she attempted to back out. She tossed her head—fear reigned every corner of her being.

The burly man Frodo met knew where Sev would be taken, and he pulled Frodo through a great deal of secret corridors to watch her be dragged in. She dug her heels into the stone, whimpering and pleading against the strain.

Frodo's throat caught when he saw her. He only saw her from a distance, so he could only pick out the struggle, not her individual features or tears. "Sev . . ."

The burly man beside him whistled. "Ain't that a strong lady. Not the most attractive of the lot, but definitely the most interesting. Don't worry; just be one of those lucky men up there and you could get to her." He clapped Frodo's shoulder; the hobbit's fingers tensed on the stone outcropping from which they watched her. She resigned close to the beam of light coming from the main hall doorway, her lungs heaving. She didn't want to give up, but she would only entertain the men more if she struggled in the open. So she let it go.

Frodo scrambled back down to the main level and snuck in to the main hall. Black tapestries lined the walls, illuminated by powerful bonfires along the floor. Everyone had shadows on their faces from the lighting position, until the grand chandeliers—all obsidian—flared alive. Frodo winced at the sudden sting, then looked around for Sev.

All attending were men, and they were dressed like Frodo. Frodo thought the outfits were ridiculous, a little bit whimiscal and bard-like in style, as well as very brightly colored. Frodo wondered if that was so no one clanged into someone else for the darkness that surrounded them. The colors certainly made one stand out.

Most of the men looked gruff and powerful, but some limped with a hunch. Some looked devious, and some were Elvish. He didn't understand: Galadriel said these were protected from death. Where could they all have come from?

Frodo searched fruitlessly for close to thirty minutes, looking for Sev, before a loud clapping sounded. The applause spread to the rest of the room, and soon whooping added to it. A spotlight of clear light illuminated on a pair of thrones at the head of the room, up on a dais with a stage extending out before it. A man stepped into the light, dressed like a king at a funeral. He wore all of the heavy furs, cloaks, and jewels, but they were washed black. He bowed to the audience, then tugged on a chain at his side. Sev stubbornly collapsed into the light, squinting at the glare. The whooping escalated to cheers and yells. Sev closed her eyes and knew she would dread every second of this.

Frodo stiffened, stepping forward. He remained close to the edge of the wall, where few were scattered about. Most, when Sev came out, clustered to the end of the stage.

The king, the man of the castle (or so Frodo gathered), held up a hand. "Greetings, orcs."

They all chanted back to him, and Frodo startled. Orcs were incapable of death?

"I'm sure you were all excited to see your lady," he flourished, gesturing to the empty throne beside him as he sat down. "But she is occupied this evening on the hunt for Iorhael!"

Frodo's brow furrowed; that name sounded familiar. He'd heard the Elves call someone by that name, and suddenly feared for whomever they were addressing. He wondered how they could "hunt" if they were trapped on this island.

His question was quickly answered: apparently the lady of the castle had a mirror from which she could see the world. The king continued to speak for some time; all the while Sev grew more and more uncomfortable under the stares and winks from the men on the floor. She rubbed her arm timidly and wrapped her wings around herself. As she had expected, this only took everyone's attention from the man at her side.

He halted his speech and wrapped his arm around her. She shuddered, trying to hide her face, but he yanked on the chain connecting to her neck. He kissed her cheek very deeply, and she groaned, straining away. The men began cheering.

Frodo gripped the wall to resist leaping forward. He squeezed his eyes shut, wishing he could do something for it. He felt a flame of jealousy that he quickly shoved down.

The king stepped back and rubbed his cheek against hers. She shied away, but couldn't get far.

"To the fires from which we were born with this speech nonsense!" he bellowed, and the men shouted in approval. "On to the true evening!" He sat back, and a few dozen women raced onto the stage. Frodo turned away, ready to retch somewhere. Something about how they looked hit him, as though they were horridly perfect renditions of actual women.

Sev closed her eyes as well. While it could have been far worse, she didn't like it this way either. They were almost sufficiently dressed—it irked her. She wanted to leave. She initially tugged against the chain, whimpering slightly. She would be forced to dance too, she knew, although that was not the difficult or uneasy part.

As long as Frodo kept his focus on Sev he would be fine. The women were covered from shoulder to ankle, so the peripheral was no trouble. It was, perhaps, their faces that bothered him. They looked so familiar, too perfect.

 _Delamarth._

He shrank back into himself, forcing his gaze to remain on Sev. Those women did; they reminded him of Delamarth.

Would she ever leave him be?

Frodo's eyes narrowed when the king threw her into the throng of dancers, and the men called out. The women tangled Sev in her chain, and she struggled powerfully. At the end of that performance a gate opened up, and the men all clambered through. The dancers were thoroughly ignored, and Sev was passed from one man to the other, unable to scramble away before being tied down in her chain.

As the men grabbed at her shoulders and trapped wings, Sev grew more and more agitated. Frodo snaked up towards the stage, and managed to get to the edge of the group before she wrested through her bindings and spread her wings powerfully. Some men stepped back, but her guards trapped her before she could do more. She hissed, opening her mouth to burn them all. They dragged her back, and her hiss grew to a screech. The king dismissed the men, who cheered loudly.

Frodo shook his head, staring after Sev. Something was wrong with these men. He wondered if being only partially alive had something to do with it.

He trotted after her guards as the men dispersed, speaking with the king.

Sev struggled and yelped the whole way as kisses dotted her face. She whimpered, throwing her wings around in a desperate attempt to escape. Despite her strength, the chains were bound with spells, and she couldn't use what power she had against them until she was locked in her chambers again and the spells drifted off.

The guards hesitantly released her into a complex of cell halls, and Frodo slipped past the dark bars behind Sev. They backed her into a corner before she ducked down and hissed, ready to beat them to death. They slowly trickled out, leaving her alone.

Sev sighed shakily and slumped against the ground. She shuffled away from the wall, grasping at her wounded heart. It was only then that she realized her wing ached and stung. She glanced up, only to see that they'd cracked the tender bone. She whimpered, even sobbed a little, and dragged herself down the hall, limping from one outcropping of stone to the next. When she got into bed she would just wait for the king to show up and then give in to her pain.

Frodo followed her slowly. She could hear his feet, and her ears twitched, irritated. She didn't want anyone in there with her—however, she did not tell him she knew someone was following her. She assumed it was the king.

She limped faster, and Frodo followed her. She finally broke into a shady corner, huddling into herself. He still had not yet clearly seen her face, for she remained hunched over and turned away from him.

He approached softly before her voice cut the air with a heated agony.

"Suspense is too much, Smeagol!" she cried. "Just get it over with or leave me alone!"

Frodo stopped. "Smeagol?"

Sev's eyes shot wide open, but then she shook her head. Whatever illusion the lady of the castle was using, it wasn't fair; it sounded too much like Frodo. "No. Don't, please."

Frodo stepped forward, stroking her wing. Sev shuddered, but this was not the aggressive touch of Smeagol. Frodo fingered the fuzzy leather of it. "Sev, it's me. I'm here to help you."

Sev turned her face slowly, staring at him with raw, red eyes. Frodo inhaled sharply at how she had changed, but he was only too glad to see her. He swallowed the lump in his throat.

"Frodo?" she whispered reverently, cupping his cheek.

He nodded, and she bit her lip.

"Frodo!" She leaped up, throwing her arms around him. Her chains clinked powerfully as she moved, and Frodo embraced her fiercely back despite them. He realized that her skin was no longer soft, but taut and heavily muscled. He gaped, shocked. "Frodo, you came for me!" She sobbed into his shoulder, squeezing him tightly. She reached back and brushed her cheek against his. "Oh, Frodo . . ." She murmured his name repeatedly, tears trailing powerfully down her face.

Frodo sat back, breathing heavily. He rubbed her only whole wing. "I'm going to get you out of here," he promised.

Sev bit her lip and embraced him once again. "Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you." Then her eyes widened, and she yanked away from him. "What are you doing here?!"

Frodo blinked. "I just told you."

Sev shook her head wildly, slamming into the back wall. Frodo initially scrambled to grab her leash, and she glowered at him.

"Frodo, it's not safe here," she hissed, standing abruptly. He followed. "You have to go!"

"Well, then, I'm taking you with me."

Smeagol's voice echoed through the halls, calling out for Sev. She shoved Frodo back, and the halfling collapsed into the shadows as she raced away. He soon saw the king racing after her; he could only assume that was Smeagol. He didn't believe it was the same Smeagol as the one who had fallen into Mount Doom . . . but he could only imagine it had to be.

Frodo slipped into the corner, determined to break her out tomorrow. He followed Smeagol swiftly through the halls after a quick moment of decision, unsure if he wanted to see what happened.

He glanced into a barred room that Smeagol locked behind him, one filled with broken furniture. Sev latched up against one wall, hissing violently. Frodo stared; he was a little terrified by the way muscles lined in her arms. She looked like she could kill Smeagol.

The king nonchalantly picked up her leash. Her ears flattened in fear, and she scrambled back fruitlessly against the wall. Frodo dodged a lump in his throat, feeling he recalled a similar experience. He blinked thoughts of the Ring away; somehow he knew his curiosity would lead to something he did not wish to see, after that horrid display below.

Smeagol approached her like one would a frightened animal. Sev whimpered, then snapped at him and tried to dodge him. He looped the chain around her, dragging her close to him. She twisted this way and that, and might have shoved him away with her feet if she were facing him. Frodo's jaw dropped and his eyes narrowed as Smeagol wrapped his arms around her. Smeagol's fingers roughly rubbed over her mouth, and she squirmed. He had imprints of red on his fingers when he pulled away.

"Kiss us, Precious," Smeagol hissed. "Just a little one, Precious, and we will go."

Sev's strangled cry hit Frodo harder than he expected it to. "No! Go away! Leave me alone, please!"

It was too much. Frodo staggered back into the wall, remembering Delamarth far too starkly.

Smeagol kissed her cheek, and she cried out. For a dragon the gesture was far more than it needed to be, far more impact on her than mortals ever felt.

"You will be my Precious." Smeagol's head turned abruptly towards Frodo, and the hobbit sucked in a breath.

Smeagol's irises were golden.


	6. Get Out of Here!

**Diem Kieu: Yep, pretty much . . . XD Well, I love that one too, and I will say that was an awesome reference. :D  
I think that's all explained in this chapter-if not, I can answer that right at the end of this one. :) Or just right now: lava can do a lot to the brain, and so can Delamarth.  
I did, and I enjoy responding! :D I've been really bad at it as of recently, but I will do it. :)**

Smeagol soon left after throwing Sev to the floor. She limped away from Frodo, her broken wing torn and her lips bleeding. Nothing else had been harmed, but Frodo stared lividly at Smeagol as he walked away. Frodo wanted to slip inside, but Smeagol locked it behind himself.

The next morning—Frodo couldn't entirely tell save for the slight addition of light from a small window nearby—he awoke to the sound of crashing couches. His eyes widened as he watched Sev wriggle under a stack of couch pieces and strain to lift them. She slowly raised them and lowered them, raised them and lowered them, sixty times or thereabouts by Frodo's count. She rolled up her sleeves when she was finished, and Frodo noticed her black outfit discarded in the corner. She now wore a white baggy shirt over a tighter one, and trousers cut to her mid-calves. Frodo gawked at the strength of her legs as well; he could see the line through her scales, and it disturbed him.

Sev checked her arms: she almost had enough strength to break her chains, but not quite. She grabbed the links and exhaled a great stream of fire at them, willing them to melt. But again, they refused. The entire palace did; rarely did the stone respond to her strongest blasts—there were only a couple of walls in the whole place that would blow to pieces, and those were few and far between, little exceptions the lady had missed.

"Cursed lady," Sev muttered, throwing her chains away. They dragged on her neck when she did so, and she lurched with a screech.

She spent most of the day alone while Frodo searched for a way to get her out. He carefully roamed the halls, searching for an unbarred window, checking all of the doors for some opening he could control, nothing. He wandered back looking for her room, defeated. Perhaps she knew a few places to get out, if only she had the motivation to do so.

Late in the evening when Frodo found her cell again, he heard giggles and female voices crowding the halls. Sev groaned audibly, then ducked behind the narrow bed. She dragged her black outfit back with her and concealed her working outfit when the girls approached. Frodo noticed a bow under her bed, and a huge set of arrows.

Perhaps she was already planning an escape.

"Hey, snake-girl!" one of them called out.

Sev's eyes slammed shut. Dragons loathed snakes with a passion, mindless little creatures that gave reptiles a slimy, sinister reputation. Nothing graceful about them. How those girls managed to make the mistake to believe that snakes had claws or wings, she did not know.

The girls filed into her cell. Frodo watched nervously as they dragged her out from behind the bed. She didn't struggle against them, rather seemed resigned and careful, as though she didn't want to hurt them. Frodo wondered at that, then followed them downstairs.

All were fitted into jeweled dresses of rich, intimidating tones. They fitted Sev into a dark brown dress, one with the back and shoulders completely sheared off. Sev struggled until she couldn't anymore as they cinched it up. She waited until they were all worried about their own dresses before she grabbed the discarded fabric of her dress that had been cut away and fit it around her wings, over her shoulders. It looked crumpled, but another of the ladies easily took care of that, smoothing it out over her shoulders and wrapping it around her arms. Sev thanked her, but the former orc couldn't have cared less.

Frodo wandered the castle, trying to find a way out. He'd checked the door, but it did not open for him as it had on the way in, and he found no way to get through. None of the windows were large enough; the red windows he'd seen were on the exterior of the thick walls alone, filled with lava from the volcano below the island. He was walking along simply when the burly man from the day before spotted him and grabbed his collar. Frodo sucked in a breath as the man dragged him along, until the former orc spoke under his breath.

"I've been offered a position as Sev's guard," he whispered, "and I think you might want to join me."

Frodo lifted an eyebrow. "I thank you, but if you appreciate it so much why would you share the opportunity?"

The man hesitated, turning a final corner. He slammed a helmet down on Frodo's head, then put one on his own. "Because she's harmful," he hissed. "No one else has been asked; it'll just be us and two of my fellows. I figured you'd be able to help."

Frodo nodded assertively and followed the guard, hoping this wasn't a trap of any sort.

Sev thrashed wildly when they entered the room, hissing and building embers in the back of her throat. Frodo worriedly grabbed her leash, then—in his best gruff voice—told her to pipe down and listen.

Sev's eyes widened, and she leaped down to the ground. She dragged her broken wing with her as she approached him, glancing under his helmet.

"Indeed," she said softly. "I would have thought you'd run away."

Frodo shook his head. "No; I'm guiding you out."

She got the message, but she didn't like it. Frodo led her calmly out, and the other guards stared, a little stunned. They managed to get ahold of her leash while Frodo led her by the hand. He took her to Smeagol at the prodding of the other guards, and the king dismissively accepted her leash.

Sev whimpered when he dismissed Frodo. She didn't want to face this alone, but knew she would have no choice. She'd made it a year; she could do it for one more night. But she wanted Frodo either to stay with her or go home.

Unfortunately he would do neither.

Frodo backed away with the other guards, lifting her claw to his lips as he backed away. Smeagol eyed him angrily, and he slipped into the shadows.

The burly man yanked him aside. "How did you do that?! You even got to kiss her hand!" He gawked up at Smeagol, who now stood and began addressing the men and women present. The stage had been removed to make way for a dance floor.

Frodo shrugged. "My uncle and I are familiar with dragons."

The man lifted an eyebrow, which Frodo could hardly see through his helmet. "Your uncle? You have family?"

Frodo paused, then shrugged. The man moved to ask him more questions, but not before one of his comrades, also in a helmet, approached him.

"Priorities to dance with Sev for the guards after Smeagol," he muttered. "I get the first."

The burly man glowered. "Sure, get it over with now. Then she comes straight to me."

It worried Frodo just a little that these men appreciated Sev so much. She was not initially attractive, and then he remembered the man's comment the other day about how it was her uniqueness and obstinacy towards touch that made her interesting. Frodo quietly backed into the shadows, waiting for the other guards to finish dancing with Sev. He needed to make sure to get her alone. Smeagol would likely come after her after the dance was over, but he needed to get her out of here as soon as he could.

He still didn't know how to do it, but if he could conceal her somewhere deep in the palace maybe the orcs would open doors to go search for her on the island.

Sev's heart dropped when Smeagol extended his hand to her. She refused to take it until he grabbed her chain and forced her clenched fist into his fingers. She hissed at him as he led her down onto the dance floor and struck a waltz position. Couples of male soldiers and females in bright dresses already swirled around them.

Smeagol eased her close to him, much closer than she wanted, so she brought up her clawed foot and poked the sharp ends into his leg. He crumpled with surprise. Frodo raced around the bonfires to the other side of the ballroom, listening in.

"My apologies, lord," she snapped sourly. Touch mattered more to her than this, and she couldn't abide how he mistreated it so.

Smeagol smiled up at her wryly, embracing her. "Your presence is enough to cover any malady."

"Oh, the ecstasy; I'm a bundle of joy for sure," she hissed. Venom dripped from her voice, and Frodo flinched at the darkness of her tone. "And how did I get myself into this mess, do you think?"

Smeagol didn't respond to that question. "Be my Precious," he whispered.

Frodo shuddered as the Ring's weight yanked yet again on his heart, as though it were Delamarth speaking, and not Smeagol. Then again, they'd both managed to adapt to that phrase.

His dance with Sev soon ended, and she ripped away from him into the arms of a waiting guard. That guard didn't withstand her punishments very well; it was a lively dance, and every chance she got with the rhythm of the song she kicked, punched, or elbowed him in the gut. Frodo stifled a chuckle when the guard handed her to the burly man, who spun her around with ease and avoided her strikes. He leaned down to whisper something in her ear.

"You may not be that beautiful, but you are strangely interesting," he murmured. "Would you like to discuss it later? Say right outside . . . right now?"

Sev smirked darkly, and Frodo lifted an eyebrow. She reached up to whisper back and licked his hair, through his helmet, with a flame. He yelped, releasing her suddenly. She resisted the urge to laugh bitterly or assertively grunt in triumph.

"Apologies," she said sourly. "That's how I whisper, but I suppose it's different with the lesser species of the world."

Frodo's eyes shot wide open when the burly orc turned on her and threw his helmet to the ground. He grabbed her by the throat and shoved her back towards the wall. Smeagol was oblivious, speaking to the fourth guard in the corner as the one currently dancing with Sev slammed her up against the stone.

"Lesser species?" he growled. "We'll see who's weaker when I'm finished with you."

 _Just kill me now so I don't have to smell your awful breath anymore_ , Sev thought. If she really cared to get out of this situation, she could barrel him aside with her wing, but it was mere pain and a little choking for the present.

Frodo leaped out from the shadows, tapping the other soldier. The man hesitantly lowered Sev to the ground, squeezing her throat one last time. She growled at him, but when he roughly kissed her cheek (just to say he'd done it and survived) she growled even more. She breathed a plume of smoke in his face, and he roared angrily. Frodo shoved him away, insisting in a whisper that he not irk Smeagol. The guard huffed, then stormed out.

Frodo shook his head; he didn't understand what kind of a nitwit it took to upset a dragon.

He turned to Sev and extended a hand. She didn't recognize him as he thought she would, and so accepted his hand very skeptically. He knew well how to dance, and drew her into a position he'd learned in the Shire. Her eyebrow shot straight up; he danced like Sam, only a little more gracefully. She frowned at the feel of his hand on her waist—it felt odd, like one of his fingers was missing.

Frodo spun her around, catching her opposite hands and locking her back against his chest, off to the side just shy of her horns. She tried to break away rather powerfully; he managed to keep ahold of her, leaning down close.

"Sev, it's me."

She staggered against him, and her jaw dropped. She stared down at his hand, where one of his knuckles ended before it could become a finger. She traced the abruptly severed flesh.

"Frodo!' she hissed. "You're supposed to be at home. I mean, I know you were here, but you can't . . . you can't be here!"

"I'm going to get you home," he whispered. He glanced up at the other guards, then kissed her cheek. She didn't buckle away from him; his touch she knew and trusted. She relaxed into the soft kiss, buckling a little with the sudden reminder of home. His fingers roamed over her hands. "Now listen," he said. "I'm going to follow you back up to your chambers. I have a way off the island. All I need is a way to get out of the castle, and then we can be gone."

Smeagol snatched her leash from Frodo before he could say more. He released her and bowed, backing away into the darkness while Smeagol glared at him.

"Who was that?" Smeagol snapped.

"Who do you think it was?" Sev retorted. Despite her dark tone, she stared after Frodo's retreating form with wistful desire. After everything she'd gone through here, he was only the most comforting thing in the world. She rubbed her fingers where his hands had laid when he held her during that dance, and she wondered if he would ever do it again.

Smeagol paused. "He seemed familiar." He shrugged, then turned away and led her back up onto his dais.

Frodo followed Sev to her chambers and slipped inside when the festivities were finished. He waited behind the bed until she arrived. She did not come with Smeagol, and Smeagol did not arrive quickly, therefore the door remained unlocked. Frodo sprang up from behind the bed, and Sev screeched, slapping against the ceiling.

"Sev, it's all right!" Frodo said, throwing his helmet aside.

The dragon-girl breathed heavily and lowered herself from the ceiling. She sighed, then embraced him. Her chains clinked against him, and he held her close to try and calm her.

"No, it's not," she muttered into his shirt. "You're still here; that's a problem!"

Frodo pulled away. "No; I'm here to get you out."

Sev frowned. "It won't work. I've tried to escape three times, _before_ they put chains on me!" She shook her head. "Smeagol won't leave me alone either. It's a miracle he hasn't showed up yet."

Frodo rolled his eyes up, pondering. "I have a canoe on the Eastern shore of the island. I got in; I think I could get you out."

Sev's eyes popped open. "A boat? All right, that might work. Flying is apparently too obvious."

"You are rather distinct," Frodo pointed out. A blush crept to his face as he surveyed her. He lifted a hand to brush her crimson hair back, softly stroke her gentle face. He'd missed her so much. "I told you you were beautiful."

Sev sighed. "Thank you, but—a little too much that way, I suppose. They won't leave me alone." She turned red also, although she did not grin. "I'd much rather you than them, Frodo." She winced, biting her lip, and then quickly regretted that decision.

Frodo cocked his head. "Sev?"

She shook her head, cinching her eyes closed. "It's nothing. My mouth hurts, that's all."

Frodo's eyes narrowed.

Sev shrugged shakily, unsure how to respond. "Kissing is too important to me, and would be to dragons in general if they had the chance. I haven't let any of the men do it. Besides, if I let Smeagol in that way, he won't stop." She swallowed and curled into a ball. "He won't leave me alone. He rubs my mouth until it's raw just to touch it."

"Sev . . ." Frodo reached down and pulled her into his arms. Her chains—spanning two inches across each link—weighed heavily on them both.

"It just stings a little," she managed.

Frodo squeezed her close. Her arms were rock hard, and when he noticed them he realized they bulged with strength. He shook the disturbing sight from his mind. "But Smeagol isn't doing good things to you." He glanced down, suspicion and frustration bubbling in his mind. "Has he threatened you?"

She nodded slowly. "Many times. And the lady is on his side."

Frodo glanced at the ground. "The men are orcs . . . Smeagol is the king . . . who is the . . .?" His eyes widened. "No."

Sev swallowed and looked up at him. "Frodo?"

Frodo shook his head wildly, gripping his forehead. "Sev, it's her!" He stared up, frantic. "How did I not realize?! All of Mordor has been brought here, to Amarth!"

"Only those that fell to the lava," Sev said. "Those five that trapped me? Ringwraiths, or something like that. The women are orcs that were created from female Elves."

Frodo groaned and slacked against the wall. Then his brow furrowed. "What of Sauron? How did all of these creatures get here?" He shook his head, standing upright. "Never mind that. Sev, we've got to get out of here!"

Sev paused. "Why?"

He grabbed her hand and stood her up, shaking his head when he eyed her still broken wing. "Do you know the name of the lady?"

Sev nodded. "Lady Delamarth." She waited for him to continue, but his face paled, and he lost strength in his legs. She grabbed him to hold him up, easily standing him on his feet once again. "Frodo, are you all right?"

He grabbed Sev's shoulders. "Has she hurt you?"

Sev shook her head, lifting an eyebrow. "No . . . why? Do you know her? Who is she?"

Frodo gasped. "And she was searching for Iorhael," he managed. His eyes met Sev's, and both of them lit up with dark epiphany.

"Sindarin for Frodo," they said nigh simultaneously.

"Who is she?" Sev repeated.

Frodo swallowed, slacking against the wall. He felt the weight around his neck, and he grabbed at his chest. "The Ring," he whispered. A shriek sounded on the air: Ringwraiths. No wonder his Morgul stab had reacted. He gasped in pain as the sting of chill came back to him, and he crumpled to the floor.

"Frodo!" Sev grabbed him and stood him up. "Eastern shore, you said?" she said hastily. "We've got to get you out of here."

Frodo scrambled against her grip, attempting to get up for himself. He could do no such thing.

"Don't fight me," she snapped fearfully. "The wraiths are already coming, and you have no time for anything more." She dragged him towards a flight of stairs opposite from where they'd come in out of the dance, and finally he managed to get to his feet. She threw her claw over his chest—it only helped him to balance, much as she wished she could heal him. He led her down the stairs, quickly wrapping her leash around his hands.

A pair of voices approached. Frodo grabbed Sev and shoved himself up against the wall, shielding her in the corner, when Frodo realized he recognized one of the voices.

"Mind," Sev hissed, feeling more than a little claustrophobic, "Smeagol will not be what you remember. Lava can do a great deal to the brain." She compacted into the corner, but Frodo followed, rather captivated by the feeling of having her close. He reached for her claw and squeezed it lightly before letting go.

"But we haves a new Precious!" Gollum hissed. "The soft, sweet, Sev-precious."

Frodo's fist clenched against the wall.

"The old Precious is mean," Smeagol agreed meekly. "But we are nice to the sweet new Precious. Why does she hates poor Smeagol?!"

Sev's eyes slacked shut.

Gollum hissed again, then coughed. Frodo peered back around the stone, only to find Smeagol physically transforming with his voice change. He realized the king looked a little bit like Gollum, save more like a man than a hunched, miserable creature.

"She will kisses us tonight, Precious. We makes her! We wants her! _Gollum, gollum_!" He clambered up the stairs past them, then peered back at Frodo.

He suddenly transformed back into Smeagol. "Who goes there?" he demanded, his voice rich and nothing like that of when he spoke to himself.

Frodo pressed on Sev's back, still hiding her as he turned around. "I am Frodo Baggins, Smeagol." He inhaled and exhaled slowly. "I am Master."

Smeagol's eyes paled, and he shrunk to the creature Frodo remembered instantly, then crawled up to Frodo's legs. "Master!" Frodo winced at the sound, and winced harder when Gollum wrapped his arms around Frodo's knees. He wailed frantically, tossing back and forth. "Master! Master has come!"

Frodo tilted the creature's head back. "Yes, Smeagol, Master is here." He suddenly lost his subconscious desire to strangle Smeagol, despite all he'd done to Sev. "Smeagol . . . Master needs you to show him and Sev the way out."

Smeagol's head cocked slowly. "Sev? The Precious?"

Sev shuddered in the corner, behind her wings. Smeagol peered around Frodo at Sev. "Precious . . ."

A whimper escaped her, and Frodo braced an arm in front of Gollum.

"Now don't touch the Precious," Frodo warned. "Remember, I'm the Master of the Precious." He felt like he was bluffing, as though Smeagol wouldn't bite it, but it worked out acceptably well.

Smeagol nodded emphatically. "Yes, Master!" Sev glanced up, and Frodo beckoned to her.

"Come, Sev. It's all right, I'll make sure he doesn't touch you." He offered his arm to Sev, and she clung to it fearfully. Gollum's gaze followed her, possession lining his every feature. Frodo put a hand on his bony shoulder, bringing him back to the moment.

Frodo tossed his head. "Now show us where the door is, Smeagol."

Smeagol beamed. "Good Smeagol always helps!" He leaped away and down the stairs. "Hurry, Master!" Then Gollum licked his lips. "And bring the Precious."

Sev inhaled and exhaled powerfully, following Frodo without question down the stairs. He glanced back at her periodically, but she held out acceptably well. She continued to eye Smeagol skeptically.

"Gollum almost killed Sam a few times," Frodo whispered.

Sev cocked her head. "What?"

Frodo nodded to the creature. "Your suspicion of him . . . it reminds me of Sam. Smeagol has hurt you, but there's still something good in him."

"Didn't he betray you in the end?"

Frodo's eyes widened, and he halted on the stairs. He glanced back at Sev.

"Yes, he did," he muttered. "But that was a mistake I made for the better, some force of fate that could not be undone. If I hadn't betrayed him the Ring wouldn't have been destroyed." Frodo shook his head. "But she isn't."

"She's not a Ring anymore," Sev insisted.

Frodo lifted an eyebrow. "I'm sure she could become one if she wished."

"Come, hobbitses; this way!" Smeagol insisted, pointing down the end of the staircase to a long hallway. Frodo recognized the black carpet and walls, and he rushed with Sev down to the end of it.

Smeagol leaped for a lever by the doorway at the end of the hall. Sev grabbed Frodo tightly . . . and after a moment he realized she wanted to take off.

"No! Sev!"

"I'm not going to fly," she muttered, although she wished she could. "I'm just going to get us down onto the ground; I only need one wing for that."

Frodo's eyes widened. "Admittedly, that isn't entirely comforting."

"Nonsense!" Sev said, but her voice trembled. The moment the doors were open to the dark night sky, she spread her wings, braced herself for the horrible noise the castle would make once they crossed the threshold, and leaped.

The broken bone in her wing ached and stabbed; she cried out as she lowered Frodo softly to the ground. She didn't make it all the way down before her wing collapsed, ripping with a loud sound. Frodo sat upright and stiffened.

"Sev!" He ran after her as she rolled through the ghost trees, obtaining scratches as she catapulted through the air. She finally thudded against one of the trunks, covered in little smears of blood. No doubt she would receive a great deal of bruises.

She blindly scrambled for Frodo, and he brought her to her feet before a loud, obnoxious ring pierced the air behind him. He clamped his hands over his ears; it stabbed like the screech of a Nazgul, which he didn't doubt was actually the case. But it was attached to a horn of some sort to amplify it.

Sev grabbed his arm and darted through the forest.

"She lets anyone in, but no one out!" Sev called out over the siren. "I've never gotten past the forest, so I hope we're a bit luckier this time!"

Smeagol, a king again, cried out from behind them, something about skullbirds. Sev hissed darkly and barreled faster. Frodo nearly smacked into one of the trees, then caught up to her.

"Well, there was a quick betrayal," Sev admitted. "At least he didn't let it burn out first."

Gollum's voice rang through the air. "Precious!"

Sev's eyes squeezed shut.

"Sev, it's all right," Frodo insisted. "We're almost there!"

The trees rattled, and Sev glanced up. The skeletal birds Frodo had seen earlier screeched in a cacophany, trying to squeeze down to the halflings through the branches. A flaming arrow slammed into one of the trees next to Sev, and the contact caused the arrow to snuff out immediately before clattering to the ground. More arrows rained after them, aimed primarily at Sev.

Frodo might not have understood if he didn't feel that horrible weight on his chest. Delamarth had no doubt taken charge.

Finally they broke clear of the trees, across the ashes in the dark of night. The ashes lit on fire briefly all around them, illuminating the way for the skullbirds, although not entirely. Frodo yanked her towards the canoe . . . only for a flaming arrow to stab it, followed by another, and another, and three more after that. Frodo's heart sank as the canoe blazed in the night, completely insalvagable.

Sev moved to shove him into the water, but one of the skullbirds leaped down on her, screeching with a warble as it grabbed her leash.

"Frodo, run!" she managed as skullbirds swarmed her.

"No!" Frodo grabbed a handful of the arrows and began jabbing them into the crowd of birds. The skullbirds screeched, pinging against Frodo's ears. He stabbed through them, finally reaching down to grab Sev.

Then a flash of light filled his vision, and a powerful, electric force shoved him over. Sev protested loudly, and might have thrown a curse word in there, but Frodo couldn't hear her above the whirr and crackle of electricity. His eyes opened wide only to see a skullbird . . . but it had no feathers, and its skeletal structure was composed of lightning. It stabbed the air with a shriek that sounded like a whistle at the top of one's hearing range. Frodo strained against the surging claws that locked against his shoulders.

More electric skullbirds joined it, pecking at him and screaming. He writhed on the ground; the sound pained him intensely, and then the Ringwraith shrieks banged through the air.

"Bring the halflings!"

Frodo froze when Delamarth's voice pierced him. He gasped and doubled over at the sight of her eyes in his mind. It was so stark, he thought she was before him, and he strained to get away. One of the skullbirds bit his neck, channeling a jolt of electricity through his body. He slumped, unable to see more.


	7. Lady of the Castle--Delamarth

**Diem Kieu: Absolutely. XD There are theoretical "twists" in this story, but I don't think they'll be too hidden, just for those that don't look.  
I think she explains that in this chapter . . . but you pretty much hit the nail right on the head. :D Either you know my writing style, I'm a horrible concealer, or you're very good at foreseeing stuff.  
** ***sweeping bow* Thank you! Well-on to where we left off in One Ring to Desire Him, then . . . I guess it takes a minute. But this really is one of my favorite chapters for the darn angst.**

 **A/N: The title of the chapter is not for the benefit of those that have read thus far, but for those that peek at the sequel from One Ring to Desire Him and think there's no Delamarth.**

Smeagol chained Sev to his bed. She protested and threatened, cursed and spat.

"Where's Frodo?! Where are you taking him?!"

Smeagol did not answer. He turned away from her, fuming, and disappeared.

The skullbirds dropped him into the arms of the former orcs, and they took him out of her sight. She waited around, pacing, and finally sat restlessly against the wall. She stood abruptly with a cry when she heard his screams below. A stab jolted through her heart, and she yanked desperately against her bindings, only to realize she was seared to the wall with a spell from Delamarth and her hands were bound together.

"No!" Sev cried. Every moment his voice escalated in agony, Sev crumpled closer to the floor. Sobs escaped her; tears flooded her face. She scrambled for a bowl with her feet, dragging it to catch her tears in case she could heal whatever they were doing to him. The bowl had a good inch of water in ten minutes, however much she yanked and desperately protested against her hold. She dug her feet into the stone, trying in vain to catapult herself away from the wall. "Please, leave him alone!"

Finally they stopped, but the halt chilled her heart: what if they'd killed him? A draconic wail escaped her lungs that quickly adapted into an angry shout. A cannon of fire escaped her mouth, blowing a hole in the ceiling; despite the resistance of the palace before, with her current energy spells were no match. She directed her fire at the wall where her chain was seared, and she blasted at the stone, kicked it, slammed her body against it, until the particular clump of stones she'd been latched to came away with her. She raced for the door; her whole soul boiled with livid, rapid energy.

A platoon of soldiers stood outside the door, and the one at the front of the group slowly opened it. Sev barked an unintelligible curse at them, then slammed into them with her shoulder. Seven of the guards collapsed, and she leaped onto the last few, crashing the stone into their armor. They collapsed, unconscious, against the stairs.

She ran and ran until she found Smeagol. She hissed angrily at him, throwing him with her feet against the side wall. He scrambled back from her. Her eyes burned with desperate, uncontrollable wildfire.

"Where is he?" she nigh snarled. But it was too close to a snake's rattle to be a snarl, and too dark, too bitter, to be a hiss or a growl.

Smeagol swallowed, his eyes wide open. He pointed down the stairs, crumpling for fear of his Precious.

Sev leaped away from him, racing down the stairs. Her broken wing dragged along behind her, and she hissed at it for how it hindered her progress. She slammed into the wall on her way down from loss of balance, which didn't help her desperation any. There were so many stairs, she realized his screams had to be awfully loud for her to hear them from up so far.

Finally she saw a beam of light at the end of the spiral, stone staircase. She swallowed, and bit her lip when she heard him whimper. She stepped inside and gasped, then rushed to him.

They'd suspended him in the air by his wrists, his toes just about to scrape the ground. His head hung low. His shirt was gone, and his leggings were torn. Whip lashes covered his back and his front, the two thickest aimed at his Morgul stab—which bled black profusely—and the sting on his opposite shoulder. She didn't think he was conscious, and could only hope he was actually still conscious.

"Frodo!" she whispered, letting her wing drag. She stepped solidly on the chains around her hands, snapping them with her energy and strength. Normally it would have been impossible. Tears sprang to her eyes as she inspected him. He groaned powerfully, tilting his head back until the stings on his back stopped him. He breathed heavily—he reluctantly allowed his neck to ache in place. She reached up, cupping his cheek. Despite her relief that he was still living, she couldn't bring herself to feel much better.

"Frodo—I—oh, Frodo." She didn't even know what to say. She reached up on her toes and deeply kissed the corner of his mouth, where a scrape thickened with red. Frodo inhaled sharply, turning to see her. His eyes were so limp; he couldn't even manage her name. Three lashes tore the heavily burned skin on his back, still not completely healed, and the pain drove him mad in that moment.

Sev kissed her fingertips, and tears flooded them. She traced those fingers across the scar over his chest. The Morgul stab did not fade—there was not a heavy enough dosage for that, but the red stripe gathered its ripped flesh together, sealing in place, an ugly stripe of angry skin that would likely never fully fade. Frodo found he could breathe a little bit easier.

She did the same with the other scars on his chest, rubbing her hand over his heart. It felt so weak, not only aching but almost ready to give up on life itself. She turned to his back, then gasped. Her gentle fingers traced the rim of his burn.

"It's a burn," she whispered. She quickly mended the scars on his shoulders and spine, then peered at the peeling, ash-white flesh that crumbled to her touch. "An old burn."

Frodo staggered for breath, recalling the sting of the whip and subsequent cuts but not able to feel it immediately anymore. Sev turned to his front, then propelled herself into the air with her whole wing and licked the ceiling with a flame. She hissed in pain when her feet thudded against the floor, but she reached out to catch him as the ropes on his hand snapped. She laid him gently on the ground, resting his chest against the stone as she inspected his back.

She gawked at the size of it, at the depth of its remaining heat in his skin.

"What happened?" she breathed. "Feels like Orodruin lava, or dragon fire—," She halted, throwing her hand to her mouth. "Frodo, I didn't do this, did I?"

Frodo strained to stare back at her. He tried to turn over, but she kept him down flat. She felt his back again, then began to sob over it.

"I did do this!" she cried. She buried her face in her claws. "Frodo, what have I done?!"

Frodo reached up with his bound hands and cupped her cheek. She shied away from him, skidding into a corner. Her broken wing dragged pitifully behind her.

"Sev . . ." he managed. He wrenched the ropes from his wrists—weakened by their snap off of the ceiling—and reached for her. She cowered into her corner, whimpering a little. "Sev, I'm all right. It wasn't your fault—the Elves took care of me. I was unconscious, and you were kidnapped; you could have done nothing."

Sev sniffled. "But I've hurt you."

Frodo gathered her into his arms, quieting her. She trembled in his embrace; she didn't know what to think now. She'd burned him. She had no doubt that was not the only place, and she allowed her hand to roam his arm, searching for another scar. She found one, a deeper one that singed her skin.

"Frodo," she whimpered. "No . . ."

He exhaustedly squeezed her close, and she buried her face in his chest. "It's all right," he insisted. "It's all right."

The moment was short-lived. Soon a squadron of former orcs came racing from the top of the stairs. Sev perked up as they approached, then shoved Frodo back into her corner. She stood and flared her good wing with a loud hiss. She hunched over, menace and hurt blazing in her eyes.

A few of the men reached forward, and she built up a blast of fire in her throat. One of them delivered a punch to her jaw, and she collapsed.

"Sev!" Frodo reached for her; the men strained over her, grabbing his arms. He scrambled wildly, but he was not enough. He called out her name as she lay, unconscious, on the floor. Her mouth bled onto the stone. He wrested against the men, but they dragged him heedlessly up the stairs. Frodo's cries once again filled the stone halls as Sev faded from sight.

The men shoved him into an antechamber upstairs, into the room where Sev had been before Frodo led her into the main hall the night before. The women met them there, and took Frodo from the men. Frodo flinched at their touch and tried to pull away, but they relentlessly reached for him, trying to smooth out his shoulders. Finally they shoved a dark blue tunic over his head. The group of women was thick enough that he couldn't back away anywhere as they cinched a brown belt far too tightly around his waist. He couldn't breathe very well.

They were surprisingly strong for being so petite; they dragged him, resistant as he was, along the black halls. Periodically one would reach over and kiss his cheek or his jaw, and he groaned, throwing it off.

It was like little bits of Delamarth surrounded him on every side.

Frodo struggled powerfully as the hall widened into a chamber, at the center of which stood a pair of double doors. This appeared to be the only architectural manifestation of color in the entire palace, murals of two eyes, one on each door.

The iris of one was crystal blue, and the other solid gold.

Frodo's eyes eased shut, and his entire body became jelly. The women dragged him forward, opening the doors carefully. They shoved him onto his knees when they entered, and they all followed, bowing by his side.

He didn't want to look up.

"Leave us," a hiss demanded. The women scattered, and Frodo suddenly felt cold, alone. Chills danced around the room, and he rubbed his arm to ward them off.

A finger tipped his chin up. He stared into a pair of horrifyingly familiar, golden eyes.

"Frodo . . ."

His eyes shot open wide, and every sting of betrayal and uncertainty he'd felt in Middle Earth he felt again now.

He swallowed. His voice trembled more than he wished it to. "Delamarth."

Delamarth could hardly believe what she was seeing. Being taken by the lava, falling down and down through its tunnels into this island, she knew it would be impossible to see him again. She had more powers than most sorceresses now, but no spells in the world would make her happy if she could not see him. She'd sent the wraiths to Bag End countless times, even been herself, only to find that Sam lived there.

She feared Frodo had died, had believed he was dead.

But now his bright, crystal eyes stared into hers. She could trace her fingers across his flawless, milky skin. His soft curls sifted through her fingers, and her senses crackled with the realization that the one she loved truly knelt before her. In her excitement the sorcery gifted her by new life began sprouting and shedding raven feathers from her arms.

As her stare grew more and more intent, almost bird-like, Frodo's heart quickened with terror. He finally could cage it no longer, and he broke away from her dominating touch. He backed into the wall, staggering against the stone.

"Frodo—," Delamarth started.

Frodo shook his head wildly. "No. You can't be here. You can't; you fell."

"If I destroyed myself, I did it for you!" Delamarth decided not to beat around the bush; he would avoid her as long as he could, which she did not want. She quickly stepped up to him. He tried to turn either out the door or for another, safer portion of the room, but she raised a stone wall out of the floor in his way. Frodo squeezed into the dark space, as though he could hide from her. She stepped inside, locking him off from slipping out. She raised another wall behind her.

"You say that," Frodo whispered. And actually he believed it. She had nothing to benefit from in falling, save to help him. "But you scarred me, Delamarth. I left for Valinor to seek healing, and I found it."

Delamarth shrugged shakily, not willing to feel guilty. "Do you need healing if the wound is now an advantage?"

Frodo's eyes widened. "What advantage?"

She reached forward, cupping his face. Frodo struggled, but he had nowhere to go. More feathers flew from her arms, an outlet of magical energy with the overflow of adrenaline at the sight of Frodo. "I love you," she breathed. "Now your desire for me is not against your quest, is it? No obligation to bar the way now." She kissed his forehead, and dizziness attacked her. Frodo strained into the wall—he had determined not to encourage her, but it was impossible with her obstinacy. She staggered as well, taken aback by the realization that he was before her. She inhaled sharply, gathering him into her arms. He struggled and braced against the wall. "Frodo, I've missed you so much."

 _But I haven't missed you._ He paused. _I don't believe I have, that is._

She pulled away, stroking the side of his face softly. "Have I not proven it to you? Why are you resistant?" She searched him, peered deep into the fibers of his being, or so he felt. His eyes shifted; he didn't like this at all.

Delamarth tilted his head up. "What more do you need? I would do anything for you."

He didn't even know how to respond to that. He wanted to tell her he just needed her to leave . . . he just needed healing, just needed to be left alone. He just needed every memory of this woman to fade away.

But she would never take that for an answer, and so he remained silent.

She took that as uncertainty, or perhaps him being coy. She dragged her fingers through his hair and leaned up close. As she spoke, her lips brushed his cheek, and Frodo shuddered.

"You were going to run away with me, do you remember? You said we could go north . . ." Her voice dropped to a bare hiss and slowed, dragging on the last word. "You would be my Precious."

Frodo bit his lip. "I know what I said." She drew closer to him as he spoke, and he stiffened. "But you convinced me to do it; I don't know what awful, twisted powers Sauron gave you, but I never could have loved you."

Delamarth chuckled, and Frodo shivered, trying to yank away even as she slowly embraced him. "But you did. You kissed me, love; do you remember?"

"Delamarth . . ."

She stood down again. "I suppose you don't. And I suppose you don't remember the hurt you felt when I _died,_ the agony in your soul when you realized you were responsible for the death of . . . what did you call me? A living creature, worth more than just gold and beauty?" She moaned, biting her lower lip. "A creature that truly cared for you." She laid her forehead against his, taking him in. He couldn't move. "I do care for you."

He knew where she was going with this. She'd done it every day, going up the stairs of Cirith Ungol, in sharp contrast to the yanking of her chain on him.

"No," he managed.

But she continued anyway . . . telling him just what she thought of him.

"You have a light about you I will never find anywhere else." She grabbed his shoulders, and he shook as she rubbed her cheek against his. She was too powerful to push back on. "You're such a sweet, handsome little thing—you did love me, I could feel it. You aren't greedy like the rest of them. You didn't want power, you didn't want prestige . . . but you were not weak." She latched her fingers around his collar. "You never gave up, and despite all you were sent to do you tried to save me at the last minute."

Frodo bit his lip. "You have only proven that I have the capacity to care for another being as any decent hobbit, man, or Elf could."

"But none of them ever did." Delamarth laid her ear against his chest, felt his heart protest wildly. But the ache Sev had felt was full now, replaced by a bitter sting. "You found something good in Smeagol; you found something good in me."

"No . . ."

Delamarth thumbed his lips, and he nigh managed to rip away from her before she leaned in. Her voice stung the air. "Precious . . ."

"I love another!" Frodo cried suddenly, remembering what Sev had told him. Delamarth paused, her mouth under an inch from his own. She glanced up, her eyes suddenly branded with loathing.

Only then did he realize, while it did stop her, it was not for the best. He bit his lip.

Her glare hardened. She didn't think she had to speak, but he said nothing more.

"Who?"

Frodo did not answer. Delamarth grabbed his collar, then calmed herself. He would not tell her now, she gathered. She brushed off his shoulder.

"I'm sure I'll find her." Despite Delamarth's desire to cut off Frodo's worry—perhaps lure this girl out—her voice came out a venomous hiss. "But until then, I'm sure I can convince you otherwise."

Frodo swallowed. Her lips powerfully pressed against his, and he protested a little, refusing to kiss her back. She kissed him twice more, trying to bring him out, but he refused. She at last backed away, grabbing his wrist. He opened his mouth to frantically ask what she was doing, and then she removed a golden band from within the folds of her plain black dress.

His eyes widened; her own cuffs were gone, and upon her arms was etched in black the language of Mordor. No longer were her eyes as solid and empty as a Ring, but full and human.

"Delamarth, I cannot lie and say I loved you," Frodo hurriedly insisted, "but you are right. I learned to care for you as a creature, nothing more!"

"You will have to," she replied nonchalantly. She pinched the golden band, and it melted open to her touch. She shoved it around his wrist, searing it tightly against his skin. He cried out; the metal bonded with his flesh, becoming a part of him. She did the same to his neck and his other wrist, and he crumpled to the floor. Heat flooded him.

Delamarth grabbed the back of his tunic and lifted him to his feet. "I wish I didn't have to do that," she admitted, "but you might try to run away again. You were so close, love, too close." She kissed his nose, and despite his sudden, pained exhaustion, he tossed his head away.

She lifted him to his feet and lowered her walls. She laid his arm around her shoulder as he adapted to the jutting metal from his neck and wrists; he noted each had a small notch/hole where a chain link could be inserted.

The chains may have changed places, but she was still the master here.

"Of course, I will not have you leashed often," she said forlornly. He breathed a sigh of relief. "You will be free to roam all of Amarth if I wish it, and in fact I shall let you go back to the mainland once in a while." She shook her head. "I made this palace as similar to Valinor in feeling as I could so you would be drawn to it, but alas, it did not work. Soon my spells will fall, and your pains will plague you deeply until you go back for a little while." She sighed and rubbed her hand over his Morgul wound. Frodo jolted. "Of course, I could heal you here." She wrapped her arms around him and softly brushed her lips against his jaw; her arms hardened like bones, and feathers rapidly sprouted and shed from her skin. "I could make you mine."

Frodo shook his head wildly.

"Some freedom away from this island would do me some good," he admitted.

Delamarth conceded to that.

"And take that dragon creature with you," she said dismissively when she released him at last. "She'll kill us all if she has to stay locked up any longer."

Frodo paused. "Delamarth, why did you take her of all creatures?"

Delamarth threw her hands in the air. "Why don't I get rid of the nuisance, you mean? Originally it was the cursed wraiths that told me there was a halfling on Valinor, and I thought it was you. They didn't tell me she had wings, or that she was a girl, just that they knew I'd been hunting for a halfling and they saw one. They brought her back, and I cast a spell on Smeagol to dote upon her. He wouldn't leave me alone, and I saw this as an opportunity to break her and throw him off. Besides, something about her just . . . _irritates_ me. I tried to kill her a few times, but she burned me once." Delamarth shuddered. "Her fire is probably enough to destroy me. So keep her out of my sight, if you would, and take her to the mainland when you go. But keep her safe; she's my bargaining chip against the dragons, as well as the Elves, and Smeagol."

Frodo's eyes widened as he stared at the ground: Sev could kill Delamarth.

"She could . . . kill you," he said slowly.

Delamarth glared at him, hurt. She folded her arms and stepped back up onto a single dais behind her, laden with two black, thorny thrones. "Yes, if you must know."

Frodo held up a hand suddenly. "I did not mean to offend, Delamarth; I'm sure she wouldn't kill you."

The Ring's eyebrow shot up. "Are you sure? Have you seen her? Of course you have, you knew she was here. But you obviously don't know her very well. She's a feisty one, and very obstinate."

"But has she ever killed anyone?"

Delamarth shrugged. "Once. Of course, all of the dead orcs become skullbirds. She only initiated one of them."

Frodo furrowed his brow. He couldn't imagine her killing anyone . . . then again he'd never seen her so irritated as a whole in his life. He'd heard her upstairs, how she crashed around on her way down, the shouts of guards.

Delamarth gestured, and the doors swung open. Frodo stepped towards them, but then pressure on his neck and wrists snapped him to a halt. He spun around, only to see solid, slender chains from all three of his cuffs combining on a single line into Delamarth's fingers. She tugged on them, and his hands slipped together. He tried to yank them apart, but despite his resistance the gold melted into a conjoined cuff.

"I can find you wherever you are," she said, then snapped hard on the chain. Frodo jolted towards her, then dragged back desperately. She reeled him in with ease and pressed his back up against her. He strained away as she nuzzled his hair, rubbed her hands across his chest. He tried to buckle. "Wherever you are."

She kissed his cheek, turned him relentlessly and brushed her lips against his. He inhaled sharply until she at last let go.

Frodo backed slowly off the dais. She stood frozen, as though she'd been unaware she could do such a thing. Tingles raced over her, then finally disappeared.

She released the chain, and it vanished. Frodo's wrist cuffs snapped apart, and he stubbornly clenched his fists at his sides.

"Go, love," she said dismissively. "I'll let you on to the continent when you begin to feel pain in your shoulders once again."

The doors stood welcomingly open, and Frodo wasted no time in racing out of them. When he left the room, the gold—now a part of his skin—began to vibrate. He gasped and gripped his wrists, one after the other, then brought his fingers up to his neck. His eyes sank shut painfully.

 _I can always feel you,_ Delamarth hissed. _Your heart . . . it is strong._ The cuffs spun on his wrists, playing with his nerves like strings. _And your skin is gentle._ The cuff on his neck convulsed, and he staggered. _And your will is melting away. Frodo, my Precious . . . be master of my castle. Be with me. Stay with me; marry me, love, be one with me._

Frodo did his best to ignore her and turned away, racing down the hall. She released him slowly, hesitantly, watched him turn right at the end of the hall.

"When I find the girl you refer to," Delamarth hissed, "you will have no choice but to say yes."


	8. Defense

**Diem Kieu: Nah, that's all right; I hope you were doing something fun. :D Or at least productive, and if not that, then you had a reason.  
Yay, clarity! XD I love my cliffhangers and my angst, and as will become perhaps more apparent-if it isn't already more obvious than Sam's infatuation with Rosie-I love my kissing scenes. O.o  
Thanks. :D Hopefully most of the rest of the story is sad and romantic . . . especially for shippers of one pair or another.  
Awesome! Well, here you are. :)**

 **A/N: I was listening to "Storm" by Blackmore's Night for the climax of this story, and it was while I wrote that that I decided Frodo needed to be an archer. Thus this scene was born. :)**

Frodo found Sev upstairs. She had a bowl by her side, and she stirred her finger in it. Something had happened to Smeagol, something she didn't care to explain. But he no longer cared much about her, and the orcs magically left her alone. She wanted to feel excited—despite her efforts she could muster no such mirth. The image of Frodo's beaten torso, the sting of the burns embedded within his skin, and the scrape of his screams in her ears would not leave. She winced to herself, trying to stir psychological healing from her tears.

But she knew it was impossible.

They'd dragged him away, and she tried to beat her way out of her cell when they locked her inside. She managed to wrest the majority of the bars out, but couldn't find him after she escaped. She searched every corner of the palace, smashed through every door she could find, and couldn't locate Frodo. She only pained and hoped she could find him.

"Sev?"

She perked up when she heard him, then settled with a slightly more satisfied expression. She smiled somewhat weakly. "You're alive."

Frodo grinned; he knew what she would have said if he reacted that way. It came out of him a little unnaturally, but he made it work. "You don't quite look happy to see me." He nudged her and sat down on her bed beside her.

Sev burst out laughing. "Has my jocosity really rubbed off on you that hard? That you'd actually make a bit of a sarcastic comment?"

"Perhaps."

She sighed. "Frodo, we've got to get out of here." Then she glanced down at his wrists, and her eyes popped wide open. She fingered the cuffs; she didn't understand what was wrong with them. They were seared into his skin.

"What happened?" Then she held up her hand. "The Ring, I'm sure. I'd better teach you how to shoot in case she comes after you again."

Frodo sat, stunned, as she circled the bed and dragged a huge, oak longbow out from under the bed. She twanged the bowstring, then drew it back easily. Frodo blinked; her muscles expanded through her baggy, white sleeve as she drew it back. The sight disturbed him immensely.

"That'll have to do," she muttered, throwing the bow onto the bed. She gathered some fine-shafted arrows—eight to ten—and gestured for him to follow. He grabbed the bow and walked with her into the dungeons, down the many flights of stairs.

She called back to him as they went down, being neatly avoided by squadrons of men and women. Sev didn't understand the change, but she preferred it that way. "You'll need to practice with it a great deal, and you might feel like your arms are going to fall off, but I don't have any lighter bows."

"Are you saying I can't pull a bow?" Frodo joked.

Sev halted on the stairs, and Frodo nearly tripped over her trailing, ripping wing. "No . . . just try this bow. I had to train for nine months to be able to pull it back." She shrugged. "Then again, dragons were not built for bows. Perhaps you can learn it faster." She lifted the beautiful oak piece. "I still can't really aim with it."

"Where did you find the time? Or the space?" Frodo asked finally.

Sev shrugged. "They gave me the opportunity to come down here. They had me imprisoned with Sauron for a while; I think they wanted me to burn him, turn him into a skullbird so he couldn't irritate them anymore. I did manage to quiet him."

Frodo cocked his head. Sev slipped down onto the main stone floor, and he followed as she walked through the dungeon. They passed through the room where blood of them both still stained a little bit of the floor, then into a darker corridor where Frodo could hardly see.

"Quiet him?"

A loud hiss sprang out from Sev's side of the hall, and a great hand swiped at Frodo. As the hobbit jumped back, surprised, Sev breathed a lick of fire. A screech followed, and whatever creature was inside fell away.

Sev grabbed an unlit torch and exhaled on it, lifting it to view the creature. It cowered in the corner; it looked almost animal, no longer human if it had been before. Tangled hair shielded most of its face, aside from two eyes that glowed in the firelight. It hunched over, and looked perhaps a little like what Smeagol might have after a month or two with the Ring.

"You," it snarled. Sev held up an arm, barring Frodo. The creature hissed again and pounced at the bars, desperately reaching for Frodo. Frodo backed away, and Sev finally hissed in response to the creature; her draconic sound easily drowned out the other, and it recoiled.

"Leave him be," Sev snapped. She turned back to Frodo and extended a hand; Frodo gripped it gratefully. "Frodo, this is Sauron."

Sauron glared at Frodo, malice lining his eyes. "You took her from me," he growled, pacing his cage. "You took her from me! I'll kill you, with my bare hands!" He sprang again for the door, and Sev reached back. His fingers scraped against her scales, igniting friction and a spark of flame. He yelped and retreated, curling into a ball under a measly bench at the back of the cell. He continued to hiss and growl, wounded but not willing to stop rebelling.

Sev led Frodo away. "He wouldn't quit going on about how you stole her, how you ruined his Precious." Sev shook her head. "I don't understand why you weren't blocked from departure by a million people; you got rid of that thing, and his cursed Ring."

"She let go," Frodo said numbly as Sev led him into a huge, one-door chamber, with a series of broken bows scattered about the room. Three targets stood at the opposite end of the stone. "I didn't have the strength to throw her in. She was right, and I failed."

Sev's eyebrows sharply narrowed, and she stared up at him. "Failed?!" He didn't look at her, suddenly feeling ashamed. "Frodo Baggins, you did not fail."

"Sev, you weren't there," he insisted. "She let go. I was going to save her." He winced when he remembered his own voice ringing out in Mount Doom, calling out her name. "I fell into her grasp; I did, I failed."

Sev grabbed his shoulder, and he glanced up at her. She looked hurt, and he didn't understand.

"You went through all of that pain for a reason," Sev persisted. "When you were sailing to Valinor, Amorhan didn't tell me Frodo Baggins, failure of Middle Earth, was coming. He said the Ringbearer, the destroyer of the One Ring, was given the great honor of being brought to Valinor. He knew you didn't throw her in; he told me so." Sev threw her free claw into the air. "I don't care if you threw her in, because whatever you did—if it had been taken out of everything, Middle Earth would have fallen." Sev swallowed. "You carried a burden greater than any ever before worn, and look at you!" She lightly squeezed his shoulder, taking in his features, everything she loved in this painful world she existed in. "Look at you."

Tears sprang to her eyes, and Frodo's eyebrow cocked slightly. "Sev?"

Sev bit her lip. "Did I tell you about the dragon's blessing I gave you?"

His other eyebrow shot straight up. "What?"

Sev shrugged, sniffling a little. "I guess not. Frodo, when I met your mother and felt you within her, I could foresee pain in your life. I couldn't have assumed you would ever heal, or need healing. I gave you my first dragon's blessing . . . and . . . and I really haven't been able to let you go since." She swallowed and turned away. "You can say all you want about what you deem to be your failures, about how the Ring was destroyed because she let go, but I can never see you as anything less than a martyr, than a warrior, that sacrificed everything he ever knew to save a world he hadn't even seen before." She moved her gaze to his. "And I can't see anything less than a hobbit I care about more than anything else in this world." She inhaled shakily, then chuckled a little. "So don't try to convince me that you're anything less than—," She searched for the right words. "Unbelievably stunning, because I won't believe it."

Frodo squeezed her close to him, and she gripped his tunic. He didn't entirely know how to take her opinion of him; he didn't quite believe her himself, but even if she was wrong she was aware of what had happened and still cared that much about him.

She moved to back away, but Frodo didn't feel ready to let go just yet. He rubbed his hands over her shoulders, then eyed the tear in her wing. He'd have to do something about that. What he could do he didn't know, but he wanted to help.

"What was your dragon's blessing?" he said quietly, swaying a little on his feet.

Sev paused, a blush creeping up to your face. "I gave you four things," she said slowly. "The wisdom of the ages, the beauty of the Elves, the innocence of youth, and the strength of Dragons." She swallowed. "I honestly didn't think about the impact it would have on me before."

Frodo slowly pulled away, not quiet sure what to think. "Do you think, then, that I could pull a bow as easily as you could? With the strength of Dragons?" He almost laughed at the thought, but waited for her to tell him.

She chuckled. "Perhaps, but I told you, it took a little while for me to attain strength sufficient for this bow." She stepped away from him, lifting a pair of long cuffs from the floor. "Regardless, these should protect your arms."

He cocked his head. "From what?"

Sev dropped the cuffs in his hands and grabbed the bow. "From this." She drew it back almost to a quarter weight, by her cheek, and tilted her extended arm closer to the weapon slightly. The bowstring snapped into place when she let it go, and it slapped against her crimson scales.

"That," she continued, "would give you a nasty welt." Then she paused. "And no, I'm not going to let you try it."

"And I wasn't going to ask," Frodo said. He strapped the cuffs onto his wrists, tucking the dark sleeves of his tunic into the ends of them.

Sev bit her lip. _No whistle. Don't do it. Don't do it._ She swallowed it back, tearing her gaze away from how the arm-guard collected his baggy sleeve into a slender warrior's cuff, outlining his lower arm/wrist and emphasizing his pale hands.

She rolled her eyes to herself _. You're nuts, Sev; don't even think about it._

"Right. I suppose we'd better start this." She stepped forward, handing him the bow. He placed his fingers over hers, and she stiffened. Frodo hadn't expected that reaction from her; he just wanted to touch her. He shrugged it away, then tested the bow in his grip when she let go. It had a smooth handhold, notched to fit a hand just a little smaller than his own—her claw, probably.

"I carved it," she said apologetically as he smoothed the wood. "The Elves showed me how while I stayed with them in Rivendell, but there is no use for weapons in Valinor, and so I left it behind. I had to build another one here."

Frodo glanced down at the carving just above the handhold. A complex Celtic knot, niched with diamonds, wound up the front of the bow, ending at a curve that looked like an F.

"It's beautiful."

"I carved it for you." Sev bit her lip. "I didn't know if I'd ever see you again . . ." She shook it off. "I'm sorry. We should get moving." She turned him to face the targets, and he watched as she fumbled about, looking for the arrows. He cocked his head to study her blush, then slipped across the room to grab her shoulder. She jolted as he directed her gaze upwards.

He led her to the other side of the room. "You left them with the bow when you walked in," he said.

Sev slapped her forehead, grabbing one of the arrows. "I am so sorry; I don't know what's come over me." She shook her head. "I knew I wasn't good at archery, but I didn't think I couldn't find a few dozen arrows in plain sight on the floor."

Frodo laughed, and she blushed harder.

"Face the targets," she insisted, and he turned. She took the bow from him, showed him the parts of the arrow and how they worked. She nocked the arrow, but allowed the bow to relax.

"I'm not good at aiming," she admitted, "but the Elves showed me at least how to start. I won't try to make you pull the bow back today." She then set the bow down and rolled up her sleeves to her shoulders. Frodo gawked at the muscle lines in them; they looked unnatural.

She spotted his gaze and sighed. "I know. I didn't want to, but I suppose dragons are just so opposed to archers that we can't do well with bows, and need strength beyond what we have to deal with them. That, and Delamarth's powers took away my initial strength; I had to forge some of my own." She lifted the bow again and took a stance with her feet apart. She locked her second and third fingers around the notch of the arrow and pulled the string back.

"Keep your arm braced out," she said, "and you want to have your dominant thumb touch your mouth." She flicked it to show him where it was, then turned and eyed the left target. Her stare grew intent, and her eyes became draconic to pinpoint where she wanted to fire. "And when you release try to remain as still as possible." She jolted when she let the arrow fly—out of fear, Frodo guessed—and it it an inch or two off of the center dot of the wooden target. The loud _thock_ echoed through the stone room, then cut off when the arrow shot right through the target and clattered into the wall. "Otherwise that will happen." She sighed. "That's why I made this for you; I just can't shoot." She gestured for him to follow. "Come; I'll see what I can do to build your strength capacity."

Frodo folded his arms. "Well, could I try now?"

Sev bit back a sour laugh. She held out the bow to him, and when he accepted she moved to grab another arrow. "Go ahead. If you can pull it back I'll give the arrow to you."

Frodo turned towards the target, then locked his fingers around the bowstring. It was a thick cord, thicker than he'd at first anticipated.

"It's six hundred pounds in draw weight," she said. "That's about the weight of a small horse, something I played around with when the Elves showed me how to add weight to a bow; it took a thousand tries before I could get a bow with that weight not to snap. Wood just isn't solid enough." She tsked to herself as she stepped back. "It shouldn't be so difficult for a dragon, but I'm not one." She shrugged.

Frodo furrowed his brow and moved to pull it back, but it wouldn't budge. He pulled harder, and it barely shifted when he exerted all of his effort.

Sev lifted an eyebrow.

Then, as Frodo turned to hand her the bow, some strength ignited within him. The strength from her blessing, he hoped, but he wasn't sure. He held out a hand for the arrow, and after a moment's hesitation she gave it to him, despite the fact that he hadn't pulled the string back.

"I'm not sure what you intend to do with that," she admitted.

Frodo simply nodded to her and nocked the arrow, then turned to the target, to the hole where her arrow had gone through. He grabbed the string, then inhaled and exhaled slowly. A fire filled his lungs, and energy prickled through his right arm as he drew the arrow back. A strength he'd never felt or known flooded every muscle in his shoulder, flowing down his arm. The bowstring came about halfway back, not as far as he wanted it, but far enough. He released. The arrow went wide, but it still came off, and the bowstring thwacked his arm cuff so hard he thought it would cut right through the leather. The strength in his arm whooshed out, and he shook his limb with the sudden, weakened ache.

Sev gawked, and he turned with a wince.

"I suppose I haven't adjusted to aim either," he admitted.

Sev's jaw stayed dropped.

"How did you do that?"

Frodo shrugged, glancing down at the bow. "I'm not sure . . . although I thought I felt something, some stroke of . . . of fire, in my chest." He held his hand to his heart, then turned back to her.

Sev threw her hands in the air. "The one with the blessing is stronger than the dragon; go figure." She approached him slowly, then walked right past him to grab the arrows. "I suppose you have a few benefits: mortal males are stronger than females, and you don't have the initial draconic hatred of archery. But despite that lack of antagonism you have an inner draconic strength." She sighed, picking up the arrows. "At least this won't be too difficult."

Frodo smiled slightly. "So I did well?"

She stared up at him, a little flabbergasted. "Did well?! Frodo, I couldn't pull that thing an inch back when I first built it!" She then hemmed and hawed. "I suppose I strengthened it after; it started out at about four hundred pounds. She handed him the arrows and clapped his shoulder. "I suppose, then, I should simply jump the adjustment; you may not have to work at this very much. Maybe we could get out of here faster."


	9. Off the Island

**Diem Kieu: Ohmagash, that is so true! That review made my week, and I keep reading it . . . it's amazing how accurate that actually is, and how much I didn't recognize it. I'm glad you're with me, so you recognize this stuff. XD  
Thanks so much! :} I get chills when I think of him drawing the arrow back. O.o I feel insane, and then I realize it's perfectly natural. Yeah, I love that song! :) Well, here you go; I guess this kind of draws things more climactic than I noticed. It's so much shorter when you squish things into chapters . . .**

They didn't end up jumping the adjustment. He still couldn't pull the bow to full draw weight, despite Sev's estimation that perhaps he would have the full physical capacity of a dragon. She ended up showing him some of the things she did to strengthen herself, and he followed rather well.

Frodo began to smile, and glow, like Delamarth had never seen him. She caught him aimlessly wandering the halls at times, and while her presence burdened him he shoved his thoughts to Sev whenever he saw her. Sometimes he would smile at something she said on accident, and that only spurred her to talk to him.

But most of the time he and Sev were in the dungeons. Finally, she decided he could aim for the target center.

When he moved to pull the bow back with the arrow nocked, Sev shook her head.

"Spread out your feet," she said.

He did so, and she stepped lightly on his toes. "Solidify your stance a little. You can't allow yoruself to move. There you go, much better." She then peered all around him, studying him. It was her excuse to probe him, but she didn't touch him needlessly. She mused to herself and reached forward, gripping his hand on the bow.

"Relax your grip just a little bit. You're a tad tense; not too much, not as bad as I usually am." She swallowed; her palms felt a little slick even as she felt his fingers. She curved them more substantially around the grip of the bow. "Good." She reached back, pressing on his right elbow. "Lower that just a little . . . excellent." She glanced under his jaw at his other hand, which rested down by his collarbone. She lowered her arm around his neck, on top of his own arm, and wrapped her claw softly around his hand.

"It needs to touch your mouth," she said timidly. Frodo lifted the bow suddenly, and her thumb brushed his cheek before she pulled her hand away. He glanced at her for approval; she nodded emphatically and pressed a hand to his back, feeling his lungs: they were still rattling a little bit from tension. "Now breathe. Just breathe, and relax."

Frodo settled by perhaps an inch in height or so.

"Set your sights . . ."

His eyes narrowed just slightly.

"And let your right fingers fall back."

The arrow snapped across the room with the half weight of the draw, shooting right through the wooden target's approximate center. Such was the momentum that the metal tip stuck into the wall behind the wooden board. Sev smiled enthusiastically and clapped.

"Well done," she said. She tried to hide the awe in her voice; never would she ever be so capable with a bow and arrows. She rubbed his shoulder, then leaned up close to him. "Now you just have to do that eight hundred more times."

Frodo grinned and set the bow aside; no matter how often the strength initially faded from his arms after he finished a shot, he didn't know that he would ever adjust to the sickening lack of power in his shoulders whenever he let go, as though the tension in the bow kept his power alive.

Perhaps his journey with the Ring had done the same.

"Sev . . . do you think I had a dragon's strength while I carried the Ring?" he mused.

Sev blew a raspberry. "I have no doubt. But she took more from you than I ever could have given."

Frodo reached for her claw, feeling the soft pad of fine scales on her palm. He brought it to his lips and kissed it slowly; tingles raced up her arm, and she cupped his face. "Admittedly, Sev, I feel like you've given that back to me." He swallowed, surveying her hopefully.

She stepped closer to him, laying her hand over his heart. She probed for the ache.

"It's fading," she breathed.

With Frodo's rise of enthusiasm—a chance at least to break free of the Ring if not from her island—Delamarth knew something was wrong. According to Sev's guards and the female orcs, Sev was becoming more defiant.

She imagined perhaps there was an interaction between them, but never saw them together and so dismissed the idea.

But she put Smeagol's curse back on him, and he continued to pursue Sev as his Precious. The day Sev didn't come down to the dungeon to meet Frodo, he worried, and he ran upstairs to find her.

As he ran, Delamarth found him. She pulled him aside, and back into her throne room. He protested, but even as he did so she allowed a short leash to materialize on his golden bands.

"Frodo, this is urgent," she hissed, throwing him into the throne room before she bolted the door behind him. He struggled to back away from her, attempting to call on the strength of dragons within him. It materialized in his arms, but he still could not brace against Delamarth: she was stronger than he anticipated.

Frodo swallowed when she turned to him. "What is it?"

Delamarth dragged him up to the dais and sat him down on one of the thrones. He scrambled to stand, but she shoved him down, bent down low so he couldn't move without pressing against her.

"Frodo," she continued, her voice low, "that dragon will kill us all. My shields are failing, and soon both of you will be more plagued than you ever have before. I know she experiences pain, for no creature can be so misformed. But I have protected you both thus far. I am arraging a portal between here and a closed-off valley in Valinor. You will be permitted to visit once, for as long as it takes for my spell to take effect."

Frodo held up a hand, and she leaned against it. He groaned inwardly, wishing she would leave him alone.

"Why do you care about her?" he managed.

Delamarth sighed. She traced his jaw, and he bit his lip.

"I do not," she said softly, tracking his features. Her fingers fell down his neck to his shoulder, settling against his Morgul stab. He stared up at her, initially afraid of that predatory light in her eyes. "But I do care about you, and if she is in pain she might take you from me. I would give her up, but she is too valuable to the inhabitants of Valinor. Not that you would understand." She lifted his chin with her finger, then kissed his cheek fondly. He wrested away. "You understand so little."

He thought he might challenge her, but he noticed she only grew more intent if he did so. Perhaps she found it endearing; he shuddered.

She tsked, a little hurt. But she thought she'd numbed herself to that pain, to his desire for light and not her. She touched her lips to his nose, backing him into the throne. "The spells will fall soon," she murmured. Frodo scrambled back as she settled, sitting on his knees. She draped her head on his shoulder. He braced his hands against the throne, but that did no good: with a flicker of her fingers, two links of chains sprouted from the golden band at his neck, then crossed her body to drag his arms up around her torso, to squeeze her tightly to him. He resisted with everything he had, but strength alone was no good against sorcery.

Delamarth didn't know what else to try: her old powers were amplified, and she pressed them on him, kneading them into his mind.

Frodo's eyes sharpened, and he kissed the top of her head deeply. Delamarth inhaled slowly, allowing her eyes to sink shut. She listened to his heart, influenced his mind.

Something powerful seized Frodo, something he couldn't explain. It was not love, it was not lust . . . it was greed. Greed for prestige and power, greed for anything grand and satisfying the world had to offer. It was not specific; an all-consuming need flowed through him, a need to have the beautiful, perfect Ring round his finger always.

He leaned down towards her. She glanced up, only to find that his eyes were not his own. She did not care for the present; at least she had him. His initial nature fought this new greed, this unnatural need for power that did not come to hobbits, and so Delamarth was forced to seal the gap between them. Frodo moaned, trying to break free, but then responded to her kiss, holding her close and kissing her back. He didn't know what to do. Suddenly he got lost, and his head tilted; he brushed his lips to hers substantially, and she crumpled with a triumphant, distracted sigh.

Finally he broke away, gasping for air. "No," he breathed.

Delamarth's brow furrowed. She had thoroughly enjoyed that kiss, and couldn't imagine letting him back off now. "No?" she clarified dangerously.

Frodo glanced up at her, fear and irritation lining his eyes, but he sounded perfectly collected. "No." Then the light of Valinor—whatever of it she had been able to reconstruct on Amarth—collapsed, and Frodo cried out with the sudden chill that stabbed through the bone of his shoulder. He buckled, and she braced him upright as he struggled to remain conscious.

Sev did not grow destructive with the onslaught of her misery. She crumpled into herself, and it rather made Smeagol very distraught. Delamarth took her and Frodo to the portal she'd constructed; Frodo, who had been given tonics by the orcs to help him stay awake, had Sev's hand and wing wrapped around his shoulders.

Delamarth stepped aside from one of the castle's many stone walls, now covered on the side with a mirror that showed a beautiful, grassy plain. Frodo's breath caught at the sight; he didn't know if he'd see the beautiful things of the world ever again.

"Go," Delamarth said gently. She kissed his cheek; Sev watched, a growl building in her lungs at Frodo's expression of discomfort. "Be healed, my Precious. I will bring you back when it is time."

Frodo nodded curtly to her, then guided Sev through. Smeagol (Frodo could hardly think of the creature as Smeagol anymore for how strange he acted) demanded that Frodo never let go of Sev's leash for fear she would fly away; apparently Smeagol did not realize Sev's wing was nearly torn in two from all the pressure she put on it. Frodo swore not to let it go, and Sev's eyes rolled initially.

They stepped out of the portal into open air, and as the portal sealed behind them both began to swell with new life. Delamarth watched them wistfully, then turned to her work.

The chill in Frodo's shoulder immediately faded, and he instantly forgot about Delamarth. Sev could barely breathe; she hadn't seen grass, mountains, trees, rivers, in over a year. She cupped her jaw, straining to keep herself back.

Frodo glanced down at her, sensing her tension. He gripped her shoulders. "Sev?"

Sev laughed excitedly. Frodo stretched out her leash, grabbing the bare end. Sev whooped, racing along the grass and spinning in excited circles. Her wings flapped, and she floated an inch or two above the ground. She rolled about in the green, soaking in the beauty of the space.

"Frodo!" she cried. "Oh, Frodo, it's beautiful!"

Frodo smiled to himself, following her as she roamed, smelling and feeling everything; she hadn't been off of that island in a long time, he realized, too long. Her eyes stayed wide open despite her efforts to be calm. Her wings flared and flicked, agitated by her lack of ability to fly.

Suddenly Frodo had an idea.

"Sev," he said gently. She turned to him, then trotted to his side.

He fingered the joyous tears from her face, and she cocked her head. He reached around to her wing, tracing his fingertips along the severed leather. The skin began to slurp back together, and Sev stiffened with the tickle.

"What are you doing?"

Frodo reached towards her face and thumbed more tears away. He could hardly contain his excitement; she would fly again.

When her wing was fully healed, she flexed it wonderingly. She glanced up at him, her expression awed.

"Frodo!" She wrapped her arms tightly around him, and he laughed too. He squeezed her back, and she pulled away. She leaped into the sky, powerfully throwing her wings against the air. She spun in circles, dove in loops, on the very end of her leash. Frodo's draconic strength activated to maintain a grip on the chain.

She swooped over him, then came back around and scooped him up off the ground. She flew with him only a moment; the wind whirred about them, and she nigh dropped him once. It almost frightened her more than it did him.

When she let him down on the ground, she hesitated.

"Thank you," she said timidly, then turned away. Frodo grabbed her arm.

"Sev?"

She glanced back up at him; her gaze did not linger there long.

"Sev, what is it?" He didn't think she could possibly look forlorn, out of Amarth and able to fly again.

She sighed, allowing a strand of her hair to fall in front of her face. "I'm simply reminded . . . I love this place, and I'm so happy you're here . . . that my wings work, thanks to you . . ." She sighed. "Frodo, I'm scared to go back."

Frodo rubbed her shoulder. "Sev, it's all right. I'll be right there with you."

Sev glanced briefly at him again, as though hiding something.

"Smeagol has threatened to torture you again if I don't let him do what he wishes to me when I return." She swallowed. "As important as a kiss is to me, I don't want you to get hurt." Her gaze flickered, and a blaze of hurt anger suddenly filled her eyes.

Frodo paused. "Why does it mean that much to you?"

"Dragons feel affection on a greater scale," Sev muttered. "It's a powerful impact we don't take very well, or very subtly, not like mortals do. I would be tortured myself before giving a token of my affection, my first, to that creature." Sev settled again. "I suppose my point is, don't get yourself hurt."

Frodo cupped her jaw, turning her to look at him. "Perhaps I cannot keep him from kissing you, Sev . . ." He paused, and a blush crawled up his neck as he surveyed her lips. His voice dropped to a whisper. "But if you don't mind, I feel a bit possessive, and would like your first 'token of affection,' as you put it."

Sev swallowed, her eyes wide open. She'd been hoping he would say something like that, but didn't truthfully anticipate it.

"Then it's all yours," she whispered back.

Frodo suddenly grabbed her face with both hands and pressed his lips solidly, intently, tenderly, against hers in an effort to erase the desperation with which he had kissed Delamarth twice now. Sev squawked in the back of her throat at the sudden contact that dragons never were exposed to, but as his arms wrapped around her wings her squawk settled into a surprised moan. She kissed him back just as intently, folding her own arms around his neck. Her wings fluttered when he faintly caressed them.

He inhaled slowly, not wanting the kiss to end, and he deepened with a soft sigh. Sev eased away from him, and he initially pecked her lips once more. But he managed to stand back—and he tried to find words. He didn't really take into account what a kiss would be like with someone substantial; he realized just how cold and surreal Delamarth's kiss was, how little it initiated his need for her as a person and how much it stirred him to have power, to hide from the light and have the precious Ring to himself.

But Sev was very different. Sev caused him to care for her as a creature, wish to be one with her.

Sev swallowed. "Frodo, I . . ." She couldn't find words either.

Frodo brushed his lips against hers once more, and she tangled her claws in his hair ever so carefully. He swayed slightly on his feet, squeezing her to him.

He backed away at last, lowering his forehead against hers.

"Thank you," she said tenderly. "Thank you."


	10. Siren

**Diem Kieu: *GASP* It could have been! Well, he was blessed to be the sexiest man alive, in the words of one awesome person I know. ;) He could very well have healing abilities.  
Oh, absolutely! You know, I'm going to leave Legolas to the fangirl majority; I don't have the desire to tell them what they're missing and be flooded. :D**

Silly as she knew it seemed to mortals, that meant more to her than even giving away her first blessing. Dragons simply did not feel that level of affection; they felt their equivalent, but for her it had a heavy impact. She often thought of that kiss, of Frodo's gentle touch and tender lips, whenever she looked at him.

When they took her back to the castle, she feared Smeagol no longer. She stood more defiantly against him, cared not what he did.

Frodo could not care for Delamarth, not like he thought he did. Her kisses were empty; greed flooded them. While it was not easy to avoid an innate perception into her character as a true creature, Frodo at least could avoid some of that inner deceit. As a little bit of an outlet for them both, Frodo pulled Sev back into the dungeon and kissed her every night.

Sometimes Sev would come down, her lips raw and bleeding. The first time that happened Frodo nearly ran right back upstairs to find Smeagol—that was all he specified, however, and Sev didn't want to know what he would do to that creature.

"It's all right, Frodo," she managed, fingering the blood away. Usually there were only a couple of droplets—easily taken care of—and that night such was the case. "When he kisses me it's worse."

Frodo's eyebrow shot up.

Sev shrugged. "I gave my first to you. But he has more impact on me than I would like; Smeagol is rather relentless." She shook her head. "Something is going wrong. He's more aggressive than he was before."

Frodo stood beside her and tipped her chin up. "I can imagine why," he murmured; his fingertips brushed her mouth, which was hot with friction to the touch. Despite the icy relief the contact offered, Sev didn't like to be vulnerable, and she turned away from him.

Frodo cupped her cheek and moved her back to look at him. He slowly lowered his lips to touch hers, and Sev swallowed when he pulled away.

"Does that help at all?"

Sev bit the inside of her lip and nodded—the pleading in her eyes was all too obvious despite her need to conceal it. Frodo reached down once again, kissing her softly and urgently. Sev conceded to let him hold her, squeezing her close as he kissed her, letting her know that she wasn't alone and despite all that surrounded her he stood with her, loving her more than anyone else ever did.

It clashed with her draconic instinct to let him protect her, but with what she'd been through so far in her life she forced herself to permit it. As for Frodo, it was a relief simply to be away from Delamarth and with Sev.

He didn't know how long Delamarth would last.

She found him as often as possible, and somehow managed to be miraculously torn away either by overexcitement, trouble with the orcs, or Sev fighting Smeagol's growing aggression that his connection to Delamarth injured her in some way before she could harm Frodo.

It all started to come back to him, the pain he'd known in Middle Earth. He grew dreary whenever he saw her, confused by his innate attraction to what her personality might have been, his greed for her power, and his terror at what he knew she could do to his mind.

Once he slipped down carefully to the dungeon to see Sev, but found Delamarth in there instead. He abruptly turned on his heel to walk away, but she heard him. She'd been admiring his bow, and pulled it back with ease. Oh, how she loved it. It was very beautiful, very draconic in style—that was a rare feat in such a weapon. Dragons loathed archery with a passion, and it was blasphemy among their kind to be associated with archers. She admired dragons, save this dragon-halfling that had been kidnapped by the Ringwraiths.

"Frodo, love," she whispered. He forced himself to keep walking away, and she irritably sent chain links after him. He heard them slinking along the floor, and he began to run. That did no good: as he frantically scrambled up the stairs, the chains caught up easily and wrapped in his cuffs, yanking him back. He froze—he did not wish to resign, but had no choice. He calmly stepped down the stairs as his arm cuffs sealed together. Delamarth met him halfway, stroking the bow.

His eyes widened when he saw her.

"Where did you get this?" she asked, glancing up at it. "It is very fine." She nonchalantly allowed his chain to drop to the ground; she covered the end with her toes, and it began to shrink, forcing him down the stairs towards her.

Frodo stared at the ground, struggling against the chain. She shifted her gaze to him as he shuffled towards her, and then she grabbed the bowstring. Frodo wondered how she would react when she realized she couldn't pull it . . . until she pulled it all the way back without so much as a strain. He swallowed as she casually relaxed the string.

"Well?"

Frodo swallowed when the chain brought him to her feet. He glanced up at her fleetingly. "It is not mine," he muttered. "It belongs to Sevanaan."

Delamarth barked a laugh. "Sevanaan . . . reject? Is that her name?" She shook her head. "A wonder I thought that creature a valuable bargaining chip."

Frodo stared up harshly. "A bargaining chip for what? What did you plan to do with her?"

Delamarth shrugged. "I was admiring your bow—pardon, _her_ bow—because it is very draconic. I admire all dragons. They are very pure, wise, powerful, like you." She knelt down before him and teasingly brushed her lips against the corner of his mouth. He tried to jerk away, but she grabbed his jaw and forced him closer to her, so that her kisses covered his cheek. "I want them," she whispered as she kissed him, spreading her touch from his cheek to his forehead and jaw. "You may not have realized this, but I'm somewhat of a . . . possessive soul, and having a royal dragon's daughter, even if one of her parents was a hobbit, means I can have dragons." She grabbed his hands and brought him to his feet. He realized then just how powerful she was: Sev's bow was no struggle for her, and perhaps Delamarth did not even recognize the fact that it should be. "I like bright and beautiful things that I can admire. If you recall correctly, it was your light that I first loathed in you, then grew to love." She wandered back into the archery room and set the bow down. "I thought of you as glass, for you are beautiful and fragile." She paused, glancing back up at him. He shifted uncomfortably under her gaze.

She smiled somewhat. "I apologize; this is not why I came to look for you."

His eyebrow cocked. "Then what did you come for?"

She bit her lip excitedly, then motioned for him to follow her. He didn't have much of a choice. She dragged him out from the dungeons, up the stairs, through an endless maze of hallways, and to perhaps the biggest window Frodo had ever seen in the entire palace. He gawked at it; while it was not remarkably monstrous, it was large enough to fit two people. There was a grid of bars blocking access in or out, but Frodo imagined he could figure out the bar problem if and when necessary. He wished he could remember what turns they'd taken to get here.

"I came to ask you what you know about Sevanaan, besides her name," Delamarth said coolly. "Then I wish to take you out of the palace, when I feel you are finished."

Frodo glanced at her. "Are you threatening me for information?"

Delamarth shook her head. "Nonsense; I want to give Smeagol a bit of a hand, and I want to see if your fascinations with her match up with what I can offer you."

Frodo's eyes bulged. "Fascinations?" he managed. He prayed Delamarth did not know how much he cared for Sev.

She nodded. "Smeagol says you interact a great deal, and I simply wish to know why."

Frodo bit his lip, then exhaled slowly: she didn't sound horribly sinister. "She is capable of flight," he said finally, "and that interests me a little. She knows how to fight with a bow."

"Certainly a feat amongst dragons," Delamarth muttered. "That is all I needed to know, and now I can show you."

Frodo lifted an eyebrow. "What more could I possibly just have told you than the exact words I said? What information did you delve from that?"

Delamarth laughed. "I was not trying to trick you, Frodo; I only wanted to know what about her interested you, as I said." She waved a hand, and the bars suddenly vanished. He perked up, trying to forge a plan in his mind. "And I don't mean to give you an outlet of escape." She held up his chain. "You cannot get away."

Frodo settled with understanding, and she stepped out the window. He lifted an eyebrow; they were at least six floors up, tall floors, hundreds of feet above ground. She gestured for him to follow, and when he did not she yanked on him. He stumbled over to the window, resisting a yelp when he tripped over the stone border. When Delamarth grabbed his torso to keep him upright, he was certain she'd done that on purpose.

They stood on a huge, black balcony, on the opposite side of the palace from where he'd come. Nothing but empty sea stared back at them.

"I asked about her," Delamarth said softly, "because I want you to fly with me, and I suspected that might be in your interests."

Frodo's eyes widened. "You can . . . ?"

Delamarth brushed it off. "Don't act so surprised, Frodo; I was reincarnated as a sorceress coming out of these towers," she said, gesturing to the various fume outlets around the palace. "And a little bit more than that, I suppose."

Frodo frowned at that. "What do you mean, a little more than that?"

Delamarth didn't respond. Suddenly she began to morph, her entire body from the neck down shifting from a black dress and pale skin to dark feathers. Frodo blinked at the change; he hadn't thought she could become more attractive, but suddenly she looked better in a hypnotizing sort of way.

"What are you?" he breathed.

Delamarth stared up at him. He noticed then that her legs became those of a bird. She flapped her wings gracefully, then reached forward and scooped him up off the ground by his chest. Frodo sucked in a breath at the powerful way her dark, sleek claws surrounded his entire torso. He grabbed on to one of her legs with his hands as she silently broke into the sky.

She then began to sing a song, a song in the dark language of Mordor. Frodo didn't understand the words, but he also didn't care to attempt translating: despite the harsh hiss of the language itself, Delamarth's voice tickled the wind with tantalizing softness, beckoning and soothing with a clear tone and gentle inflection that melted his mind. He settled almost to sleep in her grip; they soared only over dark waves and through passive clouds, but he felt like he was in the most beautiful valley in the world.

Delamarth continued to sing, delightedly staring down at him: he looked so rested, so perfect, in her grasp. She slowly lowered down towards the island designated for her kind, or at least the kind she'd been reincarnated into—skeletons of unfortunate sailors lined the shore, as did the sleeping, feathered bodies of those that she'd been associated with. She continued to sing, and soon the others joined her. When they spotted Frodo, they all began to crawl towards Delamarth as she landed.

The gentility of their voices bombarded Frodo, and he could no longer think. The bird women gathered, cocking their heads as Delamarth slowly lowered Frodo to the ground, allowing him to rest. She spread her wing out over him.

The song drifted to a halt, and Frodo's eyes flickered open. He gasped when he saw the women around him: some were blonde, some had brown hair, some had red eyes and others green, but they all shared nigh flawless facial features and surreal, aesthetic figures.

It only took a moment or two of surveying before Frodo turned back to Delamarth.

"You're a siren," he whispered.

Even as she nodded, one of the other sirens reached forward to bite him. When he flinched the siren backed away, glaring up at Delamarth.

"Well?" Her voice sounded like the tinkle of crystal. "Aren't you going to share him?"

Frodo scrambled to his feet, and the entire group of sirens reacted, swarming each other. Delamarth hissed loudly, and they all stood erect, waiting for her to continue.

"I did not bring him here to eat him," Delamarth snapped.

One of the sirens slowly cocked her head. "Well, then, what did you bring him here for?" She licked her lips with a forked tongue, and Frodo shuddered. "My, but he looks juicy. How have you resisted?"

A murmur of agreement stumbled through the crowd, and Delamarth's eyes sank shut. "He's the Ringbearer. Frodo Baggins of the Shire."

Suddenly the sirens grew quiet, and Frodo shifted on his feet. They all watched him with renewed interest, and some crept forward to touch him. Frodo jolted back, and Delamarth gripped his waist with one arm.

"You could still share," one of the sirens hissed.

"He doesn't need his legs," another pointed out hungrily. "We could eat those."

"Delamarth . . ." Frodo managed.

Delamarth waited there only a moment longer before clenching him in her claws again; he swallowed painfully as she lifted him into the air.

The sirens did not follow them, but Delamarth kept glancing back worriedly. She growled to herself; she'd often told the sirens about how much she missed him, about how sailors were perhaps only good for eating, but that Frodo meant more to her than just food. It pained her to realize that she had been born to a kind that would not change . . . and perhaps she never could either.

She set him down on the balcony, and he turned to rush inside the moment she released him. But the bars were back in place.

So much for an escape in or out that way.

He glanced back at her. "Why did you take me there?" he breathed.

She slowly grabbed his arm and sat him down. He hesitated to do so, on the railing by her side. She stared into the distance.

"I wanted to show you what my world is like." Delamarth shook her head. "I attract and devour everything. I can only see myself in those sirens; you know what I'm like." She spat out most of her statement. "That's why it's so amazing for me to look at you." She turned her gaze to him. "Imagine living like one of those creatures, Frodo, if you can. I don't believe you could, but do your best." She paused a moment. "Now imagine one of them finds a diamond. Only it's better than a diamond, for it is just as bright and precious, but it can speak for itself, a rare gem . . . and it can care for her." She gripped his arm, and Frodo stiffened as she neared him. "He can _love_ her. She wants him more than anything." She filtered her fingers through his hair; his breath moved in gasps, and his limbs trembled. "Marry me, Frodo."

Frodo swallowed, staring at the ground.

"Delamarth, I don't know if I love you." He bit his lip. "I cannot say yes."

Delamarth paused, then wrapped her arm around his waist. He attempted to back away, but she snapped his chain taut. "You don't have to." She cupped his cheek, turning him to face her.

He shook his head hurriedly. "Please, no . . ."

She cocked her head. "This other girl that you love—," She stopped, an idea suddenly coming to mind. Her gaze grew triumphant and cold. "I believe I know exactly who she is, Frodo. Do not let her come between us; you cannot possibly care for her."

Frodo thought she was bluffing until Delamarth's lips touched his ear, and her hiss slithered through his mind: "She's just a misfit."

He glanced up at her fleetingly. "I will not yield, Delamarth. She is not the only reason I recoil from you. You have admitted you are a siren, and that is all you have ever been. If you ever change, it will not be because of me. I only stir your need to keep going in the dark way that you do." He stood abruptly and spun to face her. "I demand that you let me go, for my sake if not for your own."

Delamarth acted as though she did not hear him. She trailed her fingers along his chain, then up to his neck band. He flinched, but felt he needed to stand his ground otherwise.

"I've let you go once," she whispered. "Is that not proof enough? Frodo, I do love you." She righted herself. "You will yield; you will yield soon enough. There will be nowhere for you to run." She paused. "And Sevanaan will be dead."

Frodo's gaze sharpened, and he glared. "You wouldn't."

"I would," Delamarth challenged ferociously, slamming him up against the wall. Frodo's eyes shot wide open as her voice dropped. "If I find you with her, I will kill her right there in front of you, and I will not give you the opportunity to agree with me before I take you for myself." Her harsh glare gained a frightening gleam of longing. "You have until then to decide if you want her dead or if you want to be with me."

She set him down and spun away to open the bars of the window. Frodo paused, then turned to stare at her. He did his best to keep the shiver out of his voice.

"And if I do agree to marry you? What will you do with her then?" Frodo almost didn't want to know.

Delamarth turned back to him, a sly grin on her face. "Then it works out for us all." She stood upright. "She wants to be healed, doesn't she?"

Frodo halted.

The Ring laughed. "Of course she does, and of course you know that. Well, I suppose if you agree to marry me the next time I ask, I will heal her, turn her into a dragon." She paused. "Admittedly, I would be content having only you. I was thinking I wanted the dragons, but I need them not if I have Frodo Baggins of the Shire, my Ringbearer." She nodded assertively. "There you have it, love." She stepped inside, but before he could follow she sealed the bars shut. "I'll leave you out there to think. The bars will open up in an hour or so; Sevanaan should be safely in the hands of Smeagol by then."

Frodo glared at the bars, then banged against them. "Delamarth! You cannot keep us here much longer!"

Her laugh chilled him. "I'll have you forever, love. I can still extend your life, you know."

He shuddered; that night when Bilbo reached for her in Rivendell came slamming back into him.

 _I am all that awaits you._


	11. Tender Blood

**Diem Kieu: :D Thanks! Yeah, I felt a little . . . sadistic, I guess? when I wrote that one siren with the whole, "My, but he looks juicy" kind of thing; the concept of them trying to eat him was a little too entertaining for what it was worth. O.o  
:/ Yeah, I had a friend who told me Frodo was his least favorite character (and I told him I have Frodo's personality type XD) . . . but not everybody, I guess, can appreciate true heroism. Yeah! More for us! :D I wrote a little blurb at the end of my Blood of Malice about that, about Frodo being a hero, and every time I say it it just reinforces that for me. :)  
Thanks; and I'm looking forward to the 22nd! :)**

Sev waited in the dungeon for Frodo and never found him. She scouted around the upstairs, but assumed he had been taken either by orcs or Delamarth. She growled to herself; she wanted rather badly to smack the Ring in the face, simply knowing how much hurt she had caused Frodo . . . Sev's own Frodo.

She halted. She thought of him as a precious being, now that she thought about it. A sickening dread overcame her stomach, and she sank to her knees in place.

 _You're no better than Delamarth._

She staggered against the wall. What had she done? She'd scarred him physically before, with that burn. And if Frodo treated Delamarth like he treated Sev, no wonder he had problems. Perhaps he feared them both. Perhaps he was running away from her.

 _Don't be absurd,_ she convinced herself. _He's not running from you . . . is he?_

Sev sat down, leaning her head back against the wall. She didn't want to know what he was doing right then. She knew she cared for him, but Delamarth probably did as well; perhaps she and the Ring were no different.

 _But that makes no sense._

She stood abruptly, then halted when she heard Smeagol's hiss. She ducked against the wall . . . only to realize his voice was coming from within the wall. She bent down close to it, then began trotting down the wall. She went in a full circle, never coming to an end and never finding a door.

 _Odd._

But his voice kept going, and was soon joined by Delamarth's. She picked up some of their words.

". . . plenty. We can't afford to wait for more, Smeagol."

"But we must!" He sounded kingly again for a moment, and Sev shuddered; her association with that tone of voice made her cringe. "We are not strong enough, not yet. Do not worry; I have sent the wraiths back to Middle Earth. They are gathering more to the mountain."

Suddenly their conversation halted. Sev's brow furrowed until Delamarth spoke again.

"You are dismissed, Smeagol. And don't bother to look for the girl; I am aware of her presence nearby." Even as Sev turned to run, Delamarth's voice snaked into her mind, shocking her.

 _Don't move or I'll cut your throat when I find you again,_ the Ring hissed. _I have some important matters to discuss with you._

Sev stood upright, then glanced back at the wall. Delamarth stood there suddenly, her arms crossed and her expression livid with simmering flame. She stepped forward with feet soundless against the stone. Sev scrambled back; she feared Delamarth more than she did Smeagol. Delamarth's eyebrows creased, now sharp, black angles on her perfect, porcelain face. She reached forward suddenly, and the end of Sev's leash flew into her grasp. She tightened her hold and yanked; Sev stumbled towards her, landing on her stomach.

Delamarth stepped on her back, right between her horns. Sev gasped for breath as the Ring shoved her into the ground and lowered close to her.

"Take heed, dragon-girl," Delamarth hissed. "You are walking a dangerous line. Somehow you've managed to stay alive, and you will continue to do so until I decide you are not worth keeping. You might as well adhere to my desire."

"I'm not a man, you know," Sev snapped. "I do not mindlessly heed your empty promises, or your empty head."

Delamarth hissed loudly and removed a knife from her belt, slamming it into the stone. It nicked Sev's arm on the way, but that was certainly enough: Sev had to bite her lip hard as poisons specifically designed to initiate pain flowed through her blood, growing more and more stark with every beat of her heart.

"If I had an empty head, I wouldn't have figured it out by now, don't you think?" Delamarth fumed, losing patience. She wanted to kill Sev right then, but she could hold Frodo's response to her plight at bay if she kept Sev alive.

Sev struggled against the poison; her head pulsed with the need to explode.

"Figured what out?" Sev managed. "That I'm not Frodo? Your wraiths were pretty blind to that."

Delamarth grabbed Sev's collar and crushed her up against the wall. Sev writhed helplessly against the strength of the Ring. "That he loves you," Delamarth snapped . . . but her voice suddenly softened, melted. She surveyed this girl in her grasp and wondered what a misfit, dragon-creature—not particularly attractive at all, not a warrior, and definitely not powerful for what she might have been—had against her in Frodo's eyes.

"What does he see in you?" she breathed.

Sev sank in her grip. "I've asked myself that question many times." She glanced back up at Delamarth. "I almost feel like he's lying when he says it."

Delamarth scoffed, tightening her fingers absentmindedly around Sev's throat. "Oh, he means it, all right, if he's said it to you." Sev's breathing slackened, and her eyes rolled back. Delamarth squeezed up close to her, squishing her wings. She traced her fingers down the crimson membranes of Sev's leathery wings, then slowly sprouted claws and dragged them across the skin. Sev's eyes shot wide open, and she moaned powerfully.

"You will leave him alone," Delamarth growled dangerously, her teeth clenched. She moved to the other wing; Sev gasped desperately for air as she continued there. "You will escape and leave him here, or I will kill you." She bent down low. "Don't you wish you were a real dragon?"

Sev writhed in place. "No . . . Frodo . . ."

"Oh, but you do," Delamarth purred. She gripped Sev's wing and crumpled it in her fist. The dragon-girl whimpered, straining to hold back a scream. "He knows it. He wants to help you, and I've made him a deal."

Sev's eyes flickered shut. "What deal? Just please, hurry; finish this."

"I can't, though," she continued, ostensibly pained. "If only I could hurry this process . . . but you two are just so obstinate." She cupped Sev's jaw, bracing her to look at Delamarth. "It's a good thing I am as well." She dropped Sev to the ground, allowing her head to bang against the floor once. Sev convulsed into a ball. "I told him the longer he let you alone the longer I would let you live, and if he agrees to become mine I will heal you in whatever way you desire."

Sev narrowed her eyes and struggled to stand. "Then kill me now and let him go," she insisted. "Please. I don't care what you do to me; in fact, if it comes down to it you'll just find me dead in the dungeon if that's what it takes to free him."

Delamarth barked a harsh laugh. "I'm not letting him go, even if you are dead. It's simply a way to keep what I want and what he wants in balance." She shrugged her shoulders. "A unity is all about compromise, don't you agree?"

Before she could say another word, Sev spat a long stream of fire at her. Delamarth screeched, sprouting her wings suddenly. She took off towards the ceiling and stuck there until Sev stopped.

"That was a warning," Sev seethed. Her eyes grew draconic as she struggled to her feet. "Let him go or I will finish you."

Delamarth lowered herself from the ceiling. "Perhaps I shan't give you that opportunity." She slapped Sev abruptly in the face with her wing, and the dragon-girl crumpled to the floor with the force of it. Delamarth kicked her stomach; Sev doubled over.

"And there's _your_ warning." She leaned down close. "Never mind cutting your throat." Her voice lowered to a hiss. "I'll let Smeagol do what he wants with you . . . and then I'll bite your neck until the life in you is gone." Delamarth spun away, and Sev inhaled shakily to call after her. She almost stopped herself; getting tortured would only distract Delamarth for so long, but it was worth it to get her feelings out.

"Better dead than the source of Frodo's agony, Delamarth!" Sev shouted desperately. The Ring froze, and her fists clenched at her sides. "Even if he does love you, he fears you more!" She swallowed; she remembered what Sauron had told her while she resided in the dungeon. Tears trickled down her face—she realized perhaps she would have to do what she told Delamarth to do. "And if you honestly cared for his well-being, you would let him go."

If marrying Delamarth was his decision, Sev would not stop him, she decided.

She didn't have much longer to process thought before Delamarth shouted angrily, barreling back down the hall. Sev scrambled to her feet, but that did little good. Delamarth braced her hands before her, and the stones gathered from the walls in her hands. She swung the clumps of rock at Sev; one caught her in the head and the other in the heart, throwing her back against the wall. Her vision flashed into blackness, and she recalled no more.

Delamarth stared, her breath heaving, at Sev's crumpled form on the ground. Tears sprang to her own eyes, and she collapsed to her knees.

"My powers are not my fault," she whispered, pleading with Sauron, with whatever creature had control of her fate now. "I would not hurt him so if I were different; what can I do? What did she ever do?" She swallowed, trying to find a way to change herself on his behalf. Selfishness was her creed, envy and thirst her life. Couldn't she just be more like him? If she truly had some stroke of good nature, like he told her she did, she wanted to find it and make it grow on his behalf.

But he would not have her. Try as she might to show him affection, to save his life, to search for him, to love him, he would not have her.

Delamarth's knife tip met the ground, slicing through the stone in her agonized strength.

"I have all the powers in the world," she whispered, "all the weapons and prestige and control of whatever lands I wish." She sighed shakily. "Frodo was right."

She silently stood, walking away from Sev.

"Love truly is the only thing worth fighting for." But once again, her softened heart grew hard with twisted conviction. "Then my fight is worth it . . . and if she's fighting for him as well, only one of us can win this war.

"The victor is up to him."

And she felt confident that she had the upper hand; she knew she had the upper hand. She had both of them under threat, on the edge of a knife that she could twist and turn at will.

She walked slowly back to her chamber and slipped through the iris doors, closing them gently behind her. She sat on the shorter throne on her dais; she'd saved the taller one for him. She fingered the arm of it, wondering when in this course of events he would accept the inevitable and become hers. She could imagine him sitting there, not in black like the rest of Amarth. She would teach him magic, show him the ways of the arts of molecular control, and he would make her island bright like she wanted it.

The only issues to work through, of course, were getting him to agree and showing him that she always had control.

Delamarth cupped her jaw thoughtfully, and her eyes slacked back: she could imagine being caressed in his arms, cared for by his gentle spirit, awed by the light of his eyes, held by his strong heart, lulled into rest by his tender kisses.

He'd never been tender about it, though, not up to this point. It had always been jerky, twisted, as though he didn't truly want it. Save for that kiss at Mount Doom . . . and the one here in her throne room.

He loved her, deep down; she was certain.

She stared at the doors, twisting the end of his chain around in her fingers. It shifted as the bars on the window lowered, allowing him access inside. She closed her eyes and sank into the feeling of her cuffs on his wrists and neck: not sufficient, but at least she was more a part of him now. His heartbeat echoed in her ears, and she quickened her own for a moment to match it.

"Your move, love."


	12. Pushed Too Far

**Diem Kieu: Well . . . she'll be okay. Maybe. XP I guess I could have (and maybe should have, I don't know; I might edit it to be more intense in the future) made this scene with Smeagol a little worse, but I'm not sure where my line is yet. She-uh, may or may not live. XP  
Thanks! :D Greedy and sad-for Frodo. X) Yes, I would love to see them! :)**

When Sev awakened she rubbed her head. Blood came off with her fingers, and she glanced down at her heart; a splotch of blood colored the front of her shirt. She sighed lightly; she didn't want Frodo to know, but apparently he would have to, unless she wanted to squeeze into that sorry excuse for a black suit.

She stood and immediately felt pricks of pain all over. The burning remnants of poison still lingered in all corners of her blood, pulsing and stabbing into her skin; her head and chest ached with the impact of stone; her wings tingled and flared with scars that ripped right through the sensitive flesh.

"I hope you aren't running from me," she murmured as she tended to her wounds, "because I'm doing this all for you."

Frodo's chains sprouted on his cuffs, and he feared for a moment that Delamarth was seraching for him. But as he waited, the chain did not shrink, and there was no sign of her for some time, certainly not before the links faded away. He breathed a sigh of relief . . . until he heard Sev in the endless halls whimpering. He cocked his head, listening carefully to pick out where she was. He slipped along the stone and could soon make out words. He moved faster when he heard syllables.

"Smeagol, please! Let me go!"

Only a hissing cackle followed, as well as her voice muffled. Frodo didn't know what Smeagol was doing, but it boiled darkly within him. He still felt the effects of Delamarth from earlier, and he was in no mood for Sev to go through the same. He raced quickly down the stairs to the dungeon. They were in the archery room, it seemed.

Frodo burst through, but neither Smeagol nor Sev looked up. Smeagol had her latched to him, wrapping her chains all over him, and kissed her relentlessly. She tried to scramble back as Smeagol gripped her shoulders hard.

"Smeagol!" Sev stiffened against Smeagol when she heard Frodo; the harsh venom in his voice scared her, and she only struggled harder. "Smeagol, put her down! Smeagol!"

Frodo realized, without a doubt, Smeagol was going to cross some sort of line if he didn't do something. Before he could really think further, Frodo grabbed his bow, nocked an arrow, drew it back to a bare-fraction draw, and fired.

Smeagol screeched with pain and rage as the arrow scraped his shoulders before clanging into the opposite wall. Sev scrambled out of Smeagol's slackening grip before the arrow even clattered to the floor. Frodo noticed her sleeves were torn, and she clutched a huge gash in the shoulder of her shirt. She bit her lip, staring up at him in broken gratitude, and fled the room.

"Sev!" But he couldn't go after her now. He glared down at Smeagol. The creature sniveled and griped, convulsing back into what he had been as Gollum.

"Master," he breathed, shuddering as he stared up at Frodo. He cowered back into the wall, and Frodo followed dangerously. "Master of the . . . of the Precious . . ."

"Smeagol," Frodo said darkly.

Sev listened for only a moment at the top of the stairs, clutching her shirt. Being scared beyond recognition by Smeagol and now frightened by Frodo's voice, she raced up the stairs. She had to get out of here.

Frodo grabbed another arrow and nocked it, stepping up to Smeagol. He remembered that day when Smeagol had tried to strangle Sam . . . and pulled the bow back to a three-quarter draw, the tip of the arrow aimed at Smeagol's neck as Sting had been. "Leave her be, Smeagol."

The creature sniveled and shuddered. "We swears to leave her alone," he promised, huddling into a smaller ball.

Frodo slowly relaxed his grip and set his bow aside, the arrow still attached. "Good Smeagol," he said cautiously before turning away to find Sev.

He raced through the empty halls, calling out for her. She heard him and cowered under her bed; she didn't have the strength to emerge. She felt rather alone, like carrying on this way was anything but worth it. She wanted to find a way to break out, any way to get away. She would take care of Frodo first, certainly, but perhaps she could become so dangerous that they tortured her to death.

For a passionate dragon forced to share 'minor' affections she did not feel, that was a better alternative. It was a strange mentality her mortal self did not understand, and she fought herself about it.

"It's just kissing," she muttered. "That shouldn't matter." Then she paused. "Smeagol tried—he . . ." She bit her lip, gripping the tear in her shirt. Her claws pricked her permeable, hobbit flesh in her shoulder, and blood trickled down her arm. Now her shirt was completely insalvagable.

"I'm such a mess," she muttered, tears streaking down her face. "I can heal Frodo, but I never cry enough for it. I could fly away, save I'm bound by chains and not subtle enough. I love him and can do nothing to keep him from Delamarth." She hissed to herself. "I could have been a mighty dragon; I could have been a sweet, innocent little hobbit." She sighed shakily. "What cursed twist of fate made a creature not meant to be here? What deity of the universe wanted a misfit so badly that they made one?"

Frodo stepped softly into the room, hearing her berate herself, and glanced around. When she saw his feet she abruptly halted; her eyes sank shut with the weight of her own thoughts.

"Sev?" Frodo glanced around, then peered around the bed. One of her wings protruded out from the side. "Sev, are you all right?"

Sev bit her lip, slowly drawing out from underneath the mattress.

"Yes," she managed.

Frodo didn't believe her for one second; she tried to believe herself and sound convincing, but it did no good. He reached around the bed, clutching her close to him. She nestled her face against his chest.

The venom returned to Frodo's voice, and Sev began to tremble. "If Smeagol tries that again . . ." He paused as she shook, turning cold in his arms, and he sighed. "I don't think you're all right, Sev."

She bit her raw lip. "No," she breathed. "But I don't have the energy to fight him anymore, Frodo."  
"What does he want?"

Sev shrugged shakily. "Whatever Delamarth wants from you. That's why we ought to get you out of here—both of them are growing too aggressive. Please; try to escape. If you go without me, you can probably make it."

Frodo's eyes widened, and he sat her down on the bed. He cupped her cheek fondly, bringing her onto his lap. She felt like a rock on his knees, but he hoped going home would allow her to relax the energy she spent and become gentle again. "No," he insisted. "Delamarth would come looking for me. I can't leave her, especially not without you." He tilted Sev's face up so she would look at him, and she reluctantly glanced into his eyes. She faltered; how could she let him go?

She loved him too much to let him stay. She would have to devise a way for him to get off the island. If she planned on going with him, then perhaps changed her plans at the last minute, he might go.

"Besides," Frodo said quietly, "I have no way off." He managed a smile, and Sev leaned her head down on his shoulder. He squeezed her close and kissed her forehead. "You have wings. If either of us gets off it should be you."

Sev's eyes narrowed. "Frodo, I can handle Smeagol. I can burn Smeagol; if Delamarth takes you, you'll be powerless."

Frodo wanted to tell her no, and so he did . . . but he knew that wasn't true. "I have your blessing, remember?" When she didn't respond, he wrapped an arm around her waist. "Sev, I'm not going without you." He paused, glancing at the floor. His eyelids flickered. "Delamarth has been asserting that I will be one with her, that I will be lord of Amarth."

Sev lifted an eyebrow, but stared distantly at the floor. She already knew. "Oh, joy."

Frodo sighed. "Yes, indeed. But Sev, the situation is hopeless otherwise, right? Why don't I just give in to her? I promised I would marry her before she let go, fell into the Crack of Doom. And I have no way off this island."

She ripped frantically away from him, stepping towards the door. "How can you—how can—agh!" Sev threw her hands in the air. She stared at him, her jaw open wide and trying to form words.

Frodo glanced at her, his eyes tired and longing. "You see, that's how I feel when you tell me you want to succumb, Sev." He stood and followed her as she turned her back on him, staring out the nearby door. He circled her wings and torso with his arms, but her horns kept him from holding her. "I don't want to give up," he whispered. "And I don't want you to give up either. I don't want to be in Valinor without you—we will go home."

Sev glanced at the ground. "You said they would follow us if we left." He turned her around, rubbing her shoulders as she spoke. "What hope do you have? What benefits await us in Valinor save a little taste of freedom that will be marred when she comes after us?"

Frodo paused. He didn't want to ask her now; he wanted to wait until he knew she would be hopeful. It took him a moment to find something else to offer her.

"I met your mother, Sev. Aluekrai. She's bringing an army; that's how we'll get out, and that's how we'll get rid of them forever." He grabbed her shoulders, and she stiffened. But he looked excited—she let the idea of fearing him alone. "Delamarth told me dragon fire was hot enough to kill her! Sev!"

Sev's eyebrows shot up. "You want me to _kill_ her?"

Frodo shook his head frantically. "No, that's not it, but if she ever comes back to Valinor you won't be plagued again."

"What about you?"

Frodo paused. "I don't know."

Sev shrugged then. "I understand that my father is a noble. 'Malachthar'—that's what the Elves told me his name is—means 'duke,' or thereabouts, more of a title than a birth name. It's not a direct translation, but same general idea. I could protect you with an entire army after I'm healed."

Another hesitation: she still wanted to be with the other dragons.

Frodo nodded slowly, releasing her. "Yes," he said with a smile, as much of one as he could manage. Delamarth was right; Sev wanted healing. Frodo suddenly began to second-guess himself. Perhaps they would never escape, and perhaps he would join Delamarth so Sev could be free.

Sev caught his falter and shook her head. "Frodo, I'm sorry, but healing is something I need. I thought I could be without it, but I can't." She turned and stepped out into the halls, but he continued to follow her. "I love you, but I feel unworthy to love you, incapable. I'm not meant to be here, and I think I ought to try to belong before I do anything else."

"Does that mean," Frodo interjected hopefully as they descended the stairs, "that you could possibly be changed back if you had no desire to be a dragon?"

Sev shook her head repeatedly, glancing at the stone floor. "I don't know. It would be worth it to stay with you . . ." She squeezed her eyes shut. "But I'm not what you deserve, Frodo. You need a beautiful halfling that has a real place in this world, that can handle a few scrapes and a few extra suitors with all the strength and patience of someone like you." She turned to leave the stairs and walk down a different hall, but he grabbed her arm.

"Sev, you just described yourself."

She glared back at him. "I just described my exact foil. I do believe you are desperate to get away from Delamarth."

Frodo dragged her back to him. "I suppose you just don't see things the way I do."

"You do have the wisdom of the ages, I'll give you that much," she muttered.

"No, Sev, listen to me," he insisted. Then he paused when he saw her shirt: the blood from her earlier run-in with Delamarth, as well as the rip in her shoulder, halted him. He shook his head, his eyes widening.

She held up a hand. "Delamarth. Don't worry, I fixed them, I promise."

Frodo sighed. "This is my point," he whispered. He cupped her wing; there were still tears from where Delamarth had drawn her claws down. "I never heard you scream, not at this. And you dismiss it now like it's nothing. I . . ." He bit his lip and cupped her cheek gently. "I don't want to let you go."

Sev swallowed. _But you have to, don't you?_

"Why must you?" she whispered.

Frodo's eyes flickered. She wouldn't listen if he told her, he knew; she would tell him to save himself and let Delamarth kill her. He squeezed his eyes shut when he thought of her, hung by her wrists in the dungeon as he had been, with her wings torn and her body beaten until she could live no more.

He shook his head. "It'll be fine," he promised.

Sev embraced him carefully; she still had a little time to figure things out. She could bargain with Smeagol, perhaps . . . offer him permanent, unadulterated companionship if he snuck Frodo out of Amarth.

She backed away. "I trust you," she said confidently, although she understood perhaps he didn't know how exactly things would be fine. She held out a hand and nodded towards the dungeon stairs.

"You've only had seventy shots out of eight hundred," Sev admitted, her smile resistant. "If you want to get me out of here you'd better get really good at shooting, especially if I can't convince you to leave."

Frodo's eyes widened, and he lowered his voice. "You mean, if I told you to leave you would do it?"

Sev shrugged. "If you could find a way. And I would be more for it if both of us could leave."

He paused; he could imagine that whether or not she came with him, he would lose her: the dragons would take her. He reasserted that was what she wanted, to be at home with them.


	13. Make Me Yours

**Diem Kieu: Weeeell . . . I think she'll be okay. I hope she'll be okay. Most of the characters hope that she'll be okay. XD  
*GASP* Shoot! But I have to end it first? :P Well, we're over halfway through; this shouldn't be too hard. :) Because I am so ready for those! And the chapters-I am so ready for them too.  
Sorry this one is so short. :P I'll get better at it, I promise . . .**

Frodo restlessly practiced archery the rest of that day, for the most part. He also started searching the palace for a way out. As long as he could find a back door somewhere, she could fly away. He remembered Delamarth telling him that he had free rein in wandering the island, and for once he pursued her, simply to ask.

"Dela—!" Before her whole name even came out of his mouth, she heard him and barreled down the halls desperately to find him. She approached him carefully, intrigued by why he would want to speak to her.

Her head cocked as she approached him. He backed away a little apprehensively, but couldn't anymore when chains sprouted from his bands and entwined tightly in her fingers.

"What is it, Frodo?" she murmured.

Frodo's palms grew slick as he backed into the wall. He didn't look at her as she approached; she terrified him too much. He stammered his way through his statement until he remembered himself and shoved into a sense of confidence. "You told me that I have free reign of my roaming of Amarth."

Delamarth nodded slowly, only half listening. Her eyes flickered over his face, and he swallowed before continuing.

"Well, I have found no way out of this palace." His legs trembled when she laid her head on his shoulder, and he kept his gaze far away. She turned him to look at her while she spoke. "And . . . and I would like to see the remainder of the island."

Delamarth's eyebrow arched gracefully as she fingered his collar. "They picked nice tunics for you," she mused. Her hand flattened against his chest, and he shuddered. "Very well," she sighed finally. "I suppose you do require time, and perhaps a view of this place. Come."

As she led him along, she was uncharacteristically quiet. Frodo didn't entirely understand, and hoped she hadn't thought of something devious.

"Sevanaan is becoming a nuisance," Delamarth quipped when they reached the huge double doors where Frodo had come in the first time. "Much as you perhaps care about her, I implore you to make your decision quickly." She stared up at him, her eyes suddenly hard. "The dragons refuse to take her back; her father himself said she was not worthy to be healed."

"And what does he know?" Frodo retorted, more to himself than to Delamarth. His eyes shifted to the floor. "He never knew her. He rejected her just because she was stolen by hobbits." Then he paused.

Delamarth cocked her head. "She is a pureblood dragon?"

Frodo nodded slowly; then he remembered most thought one of her parents was, in fact, hobbit. "Yes. She came too early, although I am unsure how she became part halfling."

Delamarth pondered this for a moment. "Well, love, regardless of her history she is no longer of any use to me. But I have not heard even from Smeagol of any interactions between the two of you, and thus I will wait four days for your agreement to my proposal." She licked her bottom lip, and Frodo shuddered again; she then sighed shakily. "I have decided that I cannot force you to be mine, for you simply do not recognize that you care for me. Therefore, in four days, it is up to you: she will either become a dragon and receive all she wanted, be accepted once again by her kind, or I will kill her in front of you." Her expression fell. "Of course, if you chose the latter, you would lose what you didn't understand yourself. I'm afraid I would lock you in my chambers until you understand what I've known for years."

She announced her desire to kill Sev so nonchalantly that Frodo was convinced she had no room for kind nature within her. Before he could protest or negotiate, much less process a way out, Delamarth grabbed the lever Smeagol had, and the double doors creaked open loudly.

Frodo turned to thank her as civily as he could, only to be dragged to her and kissed solidly. Frodo inhaled sharply as her hands cupped his face, brushing possessively over his skin. He reached up to take them away, but found he didn't have the strength to. His fingers only managed to lock around her wrists before he realized he couldn't.

She pulled away carefully, wishing he would have kissed her back. She wrapped her hands around his, savoring the feeling of them.

"The dragon-girl is never to know of these doors," she whispered, kissing his cheek. "And you are never to bring her here."

Frodo's eyebrow shot straight up; he imagined being lord of Amarth would be much like this. "Of course, my lady."

Delamarth hesitated, pulling away. She didn't know what she thought of a title outlet. "I am Delamarth, love."

Frodo shook his head. "Of course you are. But regardless of whether or not I become lord of this castle you will always wish to be above me." He shoved past her and swung down onto the rope ladder below, leaving her mystified.

"Frodo, wait . . ." She stopped herself before she could continue; she half wanted to run after him as he leaped from the ladder and raced furiously into the iron forest that surrounded Amarth on all sides. She slumped, defeated, as she realized he was right yet again. Frustration bubbled within her as she stared out into her dark, bland lands—that was all she'd always been. Those that were right, those that were light, those that were happy, never wanted her.

She slammed her dagger into the wall out of sheer, agonized confusion: how could she ever be like them, enough for Frodo?

She conceded bitterly that, because of what Sauron had made her to be, she couldn't be like them. She would only ever see it from a distance. Despite her strength, her control, her palace, her ownership of Frodo and the life of his love, she felt trapped.

"Maybe if you loved me, Frodo," she mourned to herself as she stared at his retreating figure, "I would know how to change. Maybe I could be like you, if you just gave me a chance once."


	14. No Way Home

**Diem Kieu: Oh, absolutely. :) Even after magma therapy, some people never change. ;)  
I hope so too, although she's got to do lots of work on her own sometimes. :P Someday they will find peace, right? Maybe? Eventually? XD Well, Malachthar is, among maybe one or two other dragons that come up later . . . oh, that was some epic wordplay! *high-five* Climax could come up soon . . . XD Sorry, this chapter is real short. Next one should be decently long, though.**

Frodo felt he could breathe again when he managed to get thick enough into the trees that he couldn't see the palace anymore. He slumped against one of them, relieved to finally be away.

Delamarth would never allow him to take Sev out. She loathed the girl enough, and still used her as blackmail. Frodo quickly roamed the options she'd given him in his mind; while marrying her was not appealing at all, perhaps it would numb him to his pain for the rest of his life, and it would let Sev go. She had, after all, said she'd forget about Frodo if she became a dragon.

Then, as Frodo turned to the sea, he felt he had another option. He scrambled to his feet and raced out of the trees to shore; the remains of the canoe were mostly swept away by the water, but that was not his plan.

He could not quite see the shore of Valinor, but he knew it was not too far. He could swim that far if necessary. He would go find Aluekrai, tell her that her daughter was in danger and that she needed to hurry with that army. He didn't know how long he'd been gone from the continent, probably something close to eight or nine months. Where the dragon could possibly still be, Frodo did not know.

Even if he couldn't find Aluekrai, he rationalized, he could get help from the Elves and Gandalf. Perhaps Galadriel could see him; he looked up into the sky at that consideration, swallowing a lump in his throat. They were unarmed, but perhaps they could smuggle Sev, and possibly him, away.

Or he could just marry Delamarth and get it all over with. Perhaps she would give him just enough power that he could tear away.

Might as well try to get out now.

Frodo stepped forward, staring back just as he stepped in the water. But before his feet even made contact with the channel, the first clanged against something that hummed with an electrical current. Frodo paused, then pulled back, only for a shield of camoflauge to trickle off like sand from a sleeping skullbird. The creature ruffled its electric wings at his touch.

 _Can't get off that way, love,_ Delamarth drawled. She sounded rather tired and unimpressed; Frodo jolted away from shore at the ache in her tone. _I'm afraid your Sevanaan wouldn't either; those skullbirds are only silent because I allow them to be. But let me assure you, I always have my eye on you._

Frodo swallowed, backing away from the shore.

 _They surround the entire island._ Despite Frodo's recognition of her triumph, he detected no smugness or excitement in her voice. _When will you succumb, Frodo?_ She pleaded now, and he buckled to drive it out of his head. _When will you realize that perhaps your feelings for me are not as bad as you think, that you honestly cared for me?_ Her voice escalated desperately, piercing the air as he raced blindly into the iron forest. He convinced himself that she was mistaken, that to think he cared for her was wrong. He collapsed against a tree, sidling roughly against it to hide. _You love me! Why do you think you suffered all that time?! Perhaps it was your quest, but your quest now is to be rid of your pain. Take me, for all that I am is yours._

"You are a temptress," Frodo hissed, his eyes sealed shut. "I will have you to protect one I know that I love, but not for you, and not for me."

Her voice faded away; it choked with the onslaught of tears. Frodo tried to believe it was a ploy, but it sounded too real, too painful. An actual urge to comfort her overcame him, and he staggered against the tree when he realized what he'd just thought to do.

 _Please, come back to me, my Precious._

Frodo's head slacked back against the tree. Sweat pricked at his forehead, and his lungs heaved with uncertainty.

"She is the One Ring," he muttered. He couldn't bring himself to trust her after all she'd done to him—but Smeagol had been the same way, and had turned for a time until Faramir's betrayal turned him once again. Frodo glanced back towards the palace, but he didn't wish to go back yet. He stood and wandered alone; although his four days were not up, he had made his decision solidly now. He only feared losing the love of his life . . . and succumbing to care for the one that had sent him away from home in so many different ways.

He wandered Amarth for hours, ashes sifting restlessly over and around his feet. The forest never seemed to end, save on little patches of ashy, gray sand. He fell asleep, somehow, perhaps from exhaustion: stress and aching pain bore down on him like heavy rain on a fragile leaf. The skullbirds watched him anxiously, prepared to attack him if he made the attempt to escape.

Frodo dreamed as he lay there . . dreams that quickly melted into nightmares of pure gold.


	15. Army Chasm

**Last one was short enough that I decided to put up two in the same day anyway . . . XP I should be better about suspense, shouldn't I? XD Thanks to all you for reading thus far; I love to hear PMs and reviews from you guys, feedback about what you liked and didn't like; don't be shy. :)**

She heard Smeagol again, within the wall. Sev tapped her foot against the floor, wondering how he could have gotten in there. She glanced up, but couldn't find any breach in the top.

Delamarth's voice soon joined Smeagol's, and soon the sounds grew closer to the wall. Sev backed away and hid in a corner as Delamarth and Smeagol melted right through the wall. Sev caught a glimpse as the wall sealed back together of a tower of ashes in a circular, doorless chamber; the ashes spun like a tornado and spat out skullbirds in little puffs of lava. Sev's brow furrowed, and she glanced up at Delamarth. She led Smeagol into another hall.

Sev waited until they were out of earshot. With her chains stealth was impossible, but she wanted to know what they were doing. As she approached the hall they'd entered, her vision grew dark. There were no torches or windows down this hall; she stepped cautiously, trying to hear past the lonely chink of her chains against the stone floor.

A shriek split the air, and Sev hit the ground. Eight or nine skullbirds whizzed over her head and disappeared down the hall, their screeches echoing eerily behind them as they melted into the endless blackness.

Sev crept along behind them, and soon darkness enveloped her on every side. She felt like the walls were squeezing her, getting more and more narrow. She realized that they actually were. She raced along the stone, and a loud scraping filled the air behind her. She turned to stare into the dimness, and when she could see nothing panic overtook her. She exhaled a lick of fire, only to see stones slamming out of the walls to cut off her way out, and the barrier was getting rapidly closer.

Sev turned and ran into the inky darkness, unable to see, almost unable to breathe, and definitey unable to form coherent thought. Her chains got caught in the pursuing stone, and she struggled, only to fall over the edge of a precipice with her chains suspending her in place. She cried out, and it echoed loudly around what seemed to be a huge chamber. She could only feel the sheer wall behind her and the chains tangled around her wings, arms, and legs. She struggled to break free, so hard that she heard a huge crack. The stone holding her chains in place crumbled, and she cried out again as she fell. She tumbled over and over herself for what seemed like ten minutes before her chains latched onto something and dragged her after them, into a huge cage. She struggled against the tangled knots of iron around her, only to find that inside the cage there were eight wooden bars attached to the ceiling, dangling down around her; she could only think birdcage.

The door banged shut behind her, and the cage suddenly dropped. Sev hissed loudly, then groaned when she slammed into the bars of one side. She fell and couldn't get up as the cage rattled its way down through the empty darkness, falling freely. She strained against the ceiling, trying in vain to flap her wings and bang into the solid metal. She called out for help once, but only got once out before the cage snapped to a halt in the middle of the air.

Sev's lungs heaved as she sank to the floor. She grabbed one of the wooden bars, snapping it from its wire hold, and lit the end with a small flame. She took a few more and stuffed them into her black sleeve, then held her torch up.

The cage creaked open. Sev peered around it; its black metal curved at the top just like a birdcage, and was attached by a ring at the top to a long cord that stretched high into the pitch black air, farther than Sev could see. Two sheer walls surrounded her on both sides, and long halls stretched in the other directions. She hadn't seen a place like this in the entire palace, and wondered what it was for.

She got her answer moments later. A rumble sounded below her, and she stepped off of the cage into a little canal in the floor. The canal had a slit opening in the middle, and Sev bent down to inspect it. She found she could see the line better without the torch, but didn't understand why . . . until she noticed a bright flame, growing brighter and brighter with every increasing rumble, in the crevice.

Sev scrambled back as a roaring sheet of lava exploded from the little slit, illuminating the whole room as it spread up the side of the wall. The cage snapped out of view, rising quickly into the air until it vanished beyond the lava's reach. Sev scrambled to untangle her wings as the lava swept into a high wave, ready to collapse onto the floor. She sprang into the air ahead of the lava, just missing the curve as boiling liquid splashed across the stone. A drop stung her foot, and she yelped, taking off just a little higher.

Finally, when all the lava settled, she swooped down over it. It sizzled in place for a moment, and then the floor creaked, tilting and allowing the lava to drain down behind Sev. She glanced after it, finally deciding to pursue the path of fire.

The lava all dumped through a narrow doorway, and she waited for all the liquid to go through before she did herself. She hurried a little, however, and her chains scraped the fire. Two of the links melted apart.

Sev glanced up into the room she'd entered, then scrambled to duck in a small, stone corner. This room looked nothing like the rest of the palace, as the last one had, but this one struck her as even more alien: it was a cavern, not built of stone but composed of a natural cave. Lava and fire illuminated the room from below; stalactites hung like teeth from the uneven, high ceiling. Clanging filled the air; men and women dressed in solid metal were tempering iron into little points and filling cauldrons with lava.

The shriek of skullbirds filled the air, and Sev glanced down into the fiery chasm. Her eyes widened; the skullbirds were armed with helmets, metal wing feathers, and longer claws. Former orcs surrounded them, all armed with bows and arrows. Sev hissed initially, backing away. The fiery chasm stretched farther under the ground than she had initially noticed—her jaw dropped as she took in the thousands of skullbirds and orcs, packed tightly into the small space.

Sev crept over to the other side of the lava canal; it stretched just as far the other way as well.

"An army," she muttered. "Why?"

Smeagol's voice alerted her, and she sank into a little crevice of rock.

"You said we needed six hundred thousand to defeat the dragons," Smeagol said proudly, sweeping his arms over the extent of skullbirds, "but in using the orcs we have eight."

Delamarth snorted. "I said six million, Smeagol," she snapped. "I told you we would never have enough."

Smeagol grumbled to himself. "We only have three days before they arrive; I can't gather another five times my own army by then!"

Delamarth glared down at him, then waved it off. "Acceptable, then. We may have a chance, with archers. But arm them well; spend all you can on production of arrows and armor."

"It's only a platoon of three hundred, Delamarth. I think we can take them."

"And how have you handled that _half_ -dragon, Smeagol?" the Ring retorted. "She could have killed you the moment she walked in." Then she hesitated. "She could have killed us all. I would have done it." She mused over that for a moment, wondering if that made the difference to Frodo at all.

Sev watched, her curiosity piqued. For a second she saw some human element to Delamarth's eyes, some real creature.

"Enough of this," Delamarth snapped to herself. She didn't like second-guessing her own thoughts, especially not if it meant surrendering Frodo to that misfit. She grabbed Smeagol's black collar and shoved him up against the wall. "We have tomorrow to prepare," she hissed. "The dragons will be there the night after. I have other things to attend to." She threw Smeagol aside, and he screeched as Gollum. He shambled away, suddenly the dark creature he had been in Arda. He soon shifted back into his king form and began shouting orders, but Sev caught the glare that flashed between them. It was some mix of love and hate—the same mix she saw constantly in Delamarth's eyes.

Perhaps Frodo would someday succumb to the same.

She didn't realize those golden eyes were staring furiously into her own until Delamarth's voice rang out through the palace.

"Kill her!"

Sev spun, spreading her wings, and took off towards the ceiling, where she thought she'd come from. Skullbird shrieks filled the air as the armored birds sprang after her. She gasped when she noticed their size; apparently the chasm had been farther down than she guessed. These birds were three times her height, built to fight dragons. They stretched out their claws for her, and she flew higher, frantically searching for the way out.

She couldn't see so high up, and she finally lit one of her torches. She estimated she had dropped her first in the lava, but had plenty of extras. She lit one and frantically ascended, only for a skullbird to grab her by the shoulders. She cried out when it channeled electricity into her, but she managed to beat it back with her wings. It blew her torch out, and she lit it again.

A door opened up some thousand feet above her, and eight more skullbirds flew out of that, taking a nosedive towards her. She dodged one and threw a torch at the second, and attempted with a bit of a struggle to roll through the rest—she needed no light, not now that she could see her way out.

The skullbirds clashed, but one of them managed to trap her, and soon an electric one slammed her into the wall. She grappled with it, finally locking her claws around its helmet. She threw it down, and it shrieked until it regained its balance. Three tangible skullbirds swarmed her, pecking at her arms and pricking her skin. Some managed to crack their beaks on her scales and fell back with angry cries. Sev wrapped her chains around one and slammed her forehead into its face; it collapsed, unconscious.

Sev scrambled towards the door; she knew it could close whenever it wished. She barreled down the hall on her wings, her unlatched chains dragging behind her. The skullbirds approached, at least the few of them that managed to get through. Her chain caught on a jut of stone, and she yelped as she collapsed to the ground. A scraping grind rang through the hall, and she glanced up desperately only to realize that the door was closing. She yanked on her chain, finally relaxing it to let it slip off. She stumbled over herself getting out, slipping through as the gap tightened. Her chain and the tip of her wing got caught, despite her best efforts. The skullbirds' screeches, now muffled, attacked her ears as she sank as close to the ground as she could get.

"So much for that," she muttered worriedly. She managed to wrench her wing free, but that only tightened the door's hold on her chain. "Confound it!" she snapped, flapping angrily. "I've got to get Frodo out of here; I don't have time for chains—," Sev halted, and her face paled.

 _War. Dragons. Skullbirds._

 _Delamarth._

"Frodo!" She wrenched against the chain. No doubt, she realized, Delamarth planned to sneak out with him during the fighting. No one would ever find him again. "Frodo!"

Finally she grabbed the iron band surrounding her waist and wrenched it hard. "Come on," she growled. "If Frodo can pull a six hundred pound bow, you can break a little . . . iron . . . strip!" She shouted once, allowing all the tension of a year of captivity in her lungs to escape, and the iron wrenched in protest until it finally snapped. Sev collapsed to the floor, finally free. She felt like she could breathe again, without that cursed thing trapping her stomach. She laughed excitedly and stood, swaying on her feet. She grabbed the links on one wrist, exhaling a long, hot stream of fire onto it. Soon it began to melt, and the moment it did Sev yanked back on the chain. Now only a strip of links remained attached to her wrist. She did the same with her other wrist, and got as close to her neck as possible.

"Frodo, get out of here," she hissed urgently, leaping to go find him.

She heard him cry out a few minutes later, and crashed through the stones of the wall to search.


	16. Pure Gold

**Diem Kieu: Thanks! :D Oh, I love the holidays. *sigh* My mom and I have been ready for Christmas to start since the beginning of last month. I didn't think about Mordor vs. Amarth; that's awesome! X)  
That could take a while, but it'll happen, I promise. :) Sorry it took so long! I think this is the first time I've updated after more than a week. :P**

 _A little boy approached him, a little boy that looked rather perfect and Elvish, although with hair cut short. He terrified Frodo . . . but something about him was too familiar, as though he were Frodo himself. The forest caged Frodo, not allowing him to escape—but perhaps he didn't want to escape. He loved this boy—wait. Did he?_

 _The boy sat down on Frodo's lap; the hobbit could not move. The boy wrapped his arms around Frodo's neck and smiled. It was an unsettling smile, one Frodo recognized and knew better now than he ever had before, as though he lived it and breathed it. Frodo froze, locked in a gasp of horror when he realized the boy had two different eye colors: the first was crystal blue, the other solid gold._

 _The doors._

 _"_ _Hello, Father," the boy said simply._

 _Frodo's eyes lifted to another figure. He wanted to be terrified; he wanted to run. He wanted to shout, insist that this was impossible. He wanted to wake up, but this didn't feel like a nightmare so much like actual life. A painful ache struck his heart—or should have—when Delamarth stepped into view, as though he were battling himself. While part of him detested this reality, some corner of his heart welcomed it as life, as the life he loved and chose._

 _Delamarth caressed her son's head. "Run along now, dear one. I'd like to speak to your father alone."_

 _The boy smiled and squeezed Frodo one last time. As the moments progressed, that little corner of acceptance grew until it swamped Frodo's mind. He wanted to scramble back, away from Delamarth as she knelt by his side, but he didn't._

 _Instead he smiled and reached up for her._

 _"_ _A beautiful lad, isn't he?" Delamarth chuckled. She entwined her fingers with a chain around Frodo's neck, one with a Ring on the end. "He looks so much like you, love."_

 _Frodo nodded, staring into her eyes with a passion he didn't understand. He wanted to get up and run, but his legs refused. He leaned forward and kissed her softly. She kissed him back; while the dream had possession of most of him, he knew that this kiss was greedy and empty, like she always had been._

 _Frodo wanted to moan when he pulled her close to him and deepened their kiss . . . and miraculously he did, but it was a soft moan, a pleasant moan, not the moan he meant. He tried to shake her off and only managed to wrap his arms around her. Her fingers stroked through his hair._

 _When she released him, she laid her forehead against his. He tried to cry out, refuse her, tell her no._

 _But he only told her "I love you."_

Frodo bolted upright, finally letting out a shout. He strained against the tree, then relaxed when he realized Delamarth was nowhere to be found. He relaxed, that is, for only a moment before gripping his forehead.

"A child," he managed. He shook his head wildly. "No . . . no, no." He stood, grabbing the tree. "No . . . please, no; she told me she couldn't." He swallowed. "Leave me be." His anxiety skyrocketed; he would never trust Delamarth again. He didn't know if she'd sent him that dream, as though to say he might as well give in and marry her. His head smacked against the tree—a marriage, that child, was only inevitable if he wanted Sev to live.

He was only warning himself.

"Frodo!"

Frodo jolted in place when he heard Sev, and he stood upright, staring into the forest. As though she would be there—she couldn't get out.

Then he remembered she'd been there when Smeagol pulled the door lever, and he breathed a sigh of relief. But as he approached the castle, he realized the doors were still closed. They opened as he approached, and as they closed behind him he looked around for Sev. He called out for her a couple of times, then realized Delamarth would probably hear him.

He searched the palace, going upstairs first. He walked past her bedroom . . . and noticed the wall was in pieces.

"Sev?"

Sev, searching the woods as she flew over them, spun when she heard him. She dove inside again and grabbed him by the shoulders, nearly throwing him back against the wall.

"Frodo!" she hissed. "Get out of here! Go! Why did you come back?!"

Frodo grabbed the few chain links on her wrists and tugged her hands away. "I came back because you called," he said patiently. He wrapped his hands around hers. "Sev, what's wrong?"

Sev shook her head frantically. "Delamarth knows my mother is coming," she hissed. "She's coming the day after tomorrow, and they've built an army to fight." She swallowed, tears pricking her eyes. "She means to take you away, I'd bet my life on it. Go!"

Frodo shook his head when she tried to push him towards the wall. "Sev! If you don't go with me I can't get out."

She nodded emphatically. "You can swim; go!"

Frodo shook his head. "Sev, she's blocked the island with skullbirds." Sev paused, her jaw slowly slacking as her gaze turned to the floor. He grabbed her arm. "If I leave, I leave with you." He swallowed, cupping her face in his hands. "Besides . . . I would never leave you alone."

Sev's eyebrow arched. "You did; twice."

Frodo frowned. Then he remembered: the Shire, when he left without telling her.

"When was the second time?"

Sev glanced again at the ground as he pulled her into his arms. Her fingers trailed up his sleeve, cupping the back of his neck.

"You didn't come after me for a year," she whispered, tracing his collar. "I felt alone . . . but then you came." Their foreheads met, and Frodo's eyes closed as he inhaled her essence. She smelled of rich dragon fire, of seared metal and a little bit of blood, but he cared not. Her wings circled him gently. "You came," she repeated wonderingly.

Frodo inhaled once again and kissed the tip of her nose. Sev shuddered, wrapping her wings tighter around him. He held her close and kissed her cheek.

"Of course I did." He allowed his lips to catch her tears; they seared like fire, healing fire, washing away Delamarth. Sev had never done anything but heal him, try to protect him, from where he looked at it. "I love you." He brushed soft kisses against her forehead, her jaw. He felt like she would shatter.

Sev shook as she turned to him. "And I love you. I don't know if I ever told you—,"

Frodo held her neck, his fingers gentle and cautious; his thumbs braced her jaw until she looked up at him. His eyes gazed into hers. "You never had to."

She leaned up close to him, and his eyes sank shut in anticipation of the kiss just around the corner. Sev didn't seem to be able to close the gap.

Frodo cupped her shoulders and brushed his lips against hers. She enthusiastically responded, locking him in her wings. Frodo startled, then embraced her and lifted her off the ground. She pulled away briefly, and he kissed her again, taking her in, never willing to let her go. She could heal him; he loved her. There were no downsides.

When he pulled away she breathed deliberately. He set her down carefully, but didn't let her go. His eyes caught hers.

"Marry me, Sev." He swallowed. "Please."

Sev blinked, backing away. "Frodo . . ."

He grabbed her arm. "We're going home," he insisted. "Please marry me. Sev, I want to forget Delamarth, and I want to forget all that ever happened in Arda. I love you; I want you to be mine forever. Please."

Sev paused and stared at the ground.

Then Frodo realized what, perhaps, her debate was.

"Sev, I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I didn't mean . . . I didn't." He swallowed. "You belong with your family."

Sev shook her head. "It's just pain, Frodo." She stared up at him, conflict glistening in her eyes. But she knew what she wanted, even if he couldn't see that. Her voice dropped, but he thought she sounded uncertain. "You're worth more than that; I belong with you."

Before he could ask her if she understood herself, her fingers sank into his hair and she kissed him solidly, trapping him in place. Frodo moaned softly; she was not deep or invasive in any way. It was the draconic warmth of her presence, the comfort of her wings around him, that allowed him to feel. He let the hardships of his painful reality slip away, as though they were already back home and Delamarth, her island, and the battles of tomorrow were already gone.

The kiss only broke when Sev let out a cry and staggered away. Frodo's eyes widened, only to see a dagger piercing her upper arm. She collapsed to the floor, shuddering with harsh breath.

"Sev!" He bent down to help her, but chain links sprouted from his cuffs and snaked across the floor. His hands locked behind his back; he struggled helplessly as Delamarth dragged him away from Sev. He turned to insist that she leave Sev out of this, but Delamarth's eyes were ablaze with a livid pain he'd never seen before.

"You," Delamarth snarled.

Frodo had to get over his intial terror before he could respond. "It was only a matter of time." His voice hardened. "I love her, Delamarth, and you will let her go or I will fight you to the last breath . . . of either of us."

Delamarth let out a war-like cry and slapped him hard on the cheek. Frodo crumpled from the impact—his vision flashed.

"Take her to the Ash Tower," Delamarth demanded furiously, yanking Frodo away. "She'll die in battle." She glared down at Frodo. "And he will watch."

Frodo strained to glance up as Smeagol grabbed Sev, yanking the dagger from her. She strained to get away, but she seemed so weak; Frodo didn't understand. But he didn't care to understand, not when Smeagol dragged her away.

"Sev!" Frodo cried, scrambling in vain against the floor. Delamarth yanked him easily along, even when the sting on his face faded enough for him to stand. He fought her as best he could, but Delamarth had a hasty anger with no match.

She dragged him all the way down to the dungeon, to the archery room, and shoved him inside. The door latched shut behind her. She fumed at him, her eyes glowing in the dim light. She stared at him for a terrifying moment as he burrowed against the wall, more afraid of her than he had ever been.

But even as she watched him, remembered the horrifying chill that raced through her spine when she saw him kissing that misfit like he owned her, she realized that love conquered betrayals. She sucked in a breath; perhaps that was why, despite all she put them through, Frodo and Sev managed to continue together.

"Frodo, love . . ." She paused, eyeing him. She snapped her fingers, and a plethora of torches danced to life from sconces in the room. She tipped his chin up and cupped his cheek; she saw no trace of a bruise, but he did flinch when she approached. "Frodo, I'm so sorry," she whispered. She slacked by his side, almost on his lap, and Frodo stiffened.

"Why?" He stared down at her with his eyebrow raised. "You don't like her, do you?"

Delamarth sighed heavily, fingering his shoulder. Frodo might have wrenched away if she didn't solidly lock her arm in his. "Of course not," she said softly. "It won't be difficult to kill her tomorrow." Frodo froze and turned to protest, but she continued. "I simply didn't mean to hurt you."

Frodo's eyes narrowed; he jerked his face away from her. "Regardless of your intentions, I would have you know this hurts the least of anything."

She stared at him, rather taken aback. He had said similar things to her before . . . but she never realized he could compare them to a physical sting. She sat back, releasing him. Suddenly it seemed all so close, that what she had done in an effort to please him was worse than a solid slap, that her approval was worse than her rejection.

Delamarth left without another word, but she did bolt the door behind her. Frodo scrambled to his feet, but collapsed again to the floor: his hands were still bound at his back. He strained to stand and ran for the door.

"Delamarth!" He slammed his shoulder against the wood. "Delamarth, leave her alone! Please!" He wished she would turn around and let him negotiate with her, but he knew it wouldn't happen. He sank to the floor; she would kill Sev with her own hands the day after tomorrow.

Frodo didn't even have the comfort of wrapping his arms around himself, much less the one he loved. He swallowed and laid against the floor; he felt powerless, cold . . . alone.


	17. To Arms

**Diem Kieu: *sigh* Yeah . . . I was in a moody mood when I wrote this story. O.o And that is one of those times. :D Oh, yeah! Weeeeell . . . sort of. X)  
No, that's all fine! You been busy, you been busy; what you been up to? :) Yes! Do it! I will come read and review and favorite and stuff!**

Smeagol dragged Sev, kicking and hissing, to the Ash Tower, where he and Delamarth had been talking when she found them and followed them to the army below. Delamarth joined them, exhaustion and pain lining her face as she grabbed Sev's shoulders and shoved her up against the stone.

"Enjoy your last day, Sevanaan," Delamarth spat, "perhaps even as much as you enjoyed that good-bye kiss."

She shoved Sev inside through the stone, which became permeable at Sev's back until she fell into the tower. She nearly stumbled into the pile of ashes, which had stopped rotating and now sat perfectly still. She recovered her feet and banged on the tower stones, insisting that they let her go. She slammed against them, blasted them with fire, anything. She hissed to herself, turning away.

At that moment she did not fear Delamarth. She couldn't; the woman was nothing short of abnormally sadistic if not ruthless, and if it came down to it, Sev knew she could destroy Delamarth. She exhaled deeply—she never wanted to kill anyone. She'd gone out and apologized to that skullbird every day after she killed him. He didn't care, but it made Sev feel better.

She paced until she couldn't anymore. Regardless of whether or not she died, Delamarth would sneak away with Frodo. Sev didn't know where they would go, and even if she spent the rest of her days looking Delamarth would never get off of him.

Sev's fist met the wall in defeat, and she slacked her head against the stone.

Her mother was coming, but she didn't know that she would be alive to meet her.

She breathed what she anticipated could be her last prayer, the one she had uttered every day since her hatching.

"Please keep him safe."

-0-

Delamarth feared facing Frodo, so she left him alone all that day. That gave him time to throw away his pain, his fears, and try to figure out a way out of this situation. It took pains not to recall that his last quest had ended in pain . . . until he remembered that his pain came to light, that there was still hope left. Sam's words echoed in his ears, but they were different.

 _There's some good in this world, Mr. Frodo . . . and she's worth fighting for._

Frodo's eyes snapped open; he thought he could see his friend, gardening with his sweet little ones and his beautiful wife surrounding him. Sam's hazel eyes met Frodo's.

 _Save my sister. Save the people you love, Mr. Frodo. That's what I did when I went to Mordor, you know._

Conviction hardened on Frodo's face, and he leaped to his feet. He calculated the difficulties before him: the door was barred, there were no windows, he was bound at the hands, and Sev would be killed if he didn't think of something fast.

He paced quickly. Delamarth would have to let him out, or at least undo his bindings so he could force his way out. Suddenly he spotted his bow on the ground; he hadn't realized she would leave it in there. He leaped forward, then turned and picked up the weapon. The cuffs were nearby, but he had no arrows.

Frodo glanced up at the targets; there was a splintered arrow in the back corner, but he could make no good use of that. He turned his head again, and a whole arrow lay on the other side of the room. He shuffled over to it and picked it up from behind him, then dropped it by the bow.

He turned back to the door. "Delamarth!" He waited for her to respond, but she didn't. He sighed, sitting down again.

The doors flew open a moment later, and Delamarth shut them behind her. She'd sent four wraiths to spy on the dragons, and all had returned, but three were now skullbirds, the other scraped and charred. They were coming sooner than expected, and would arrive within hours.

"Yes, love?" she said hurriedly.

Frodo tossed his head. "You said you wanted me to watch her death." He cut back his excitement—he thought he could get her out. "But I have no window."

Delamarth hesitated; she had to get him a window, for to bring him out onto the battlefield would be to let him get killed. She clenched her fingers, and stones flew out from the wall to create a window; bars snapped into place in a tight grid across the open space. Frodo nodded in thanks, then turned around.

"And I think you forgot to undo these yesterday."

Delamarth froze, then folded her arms. "What's gotten into you?"

Frodo glanced back at her.

"You should be groveling at my feet to spare her life," Delamarth drawled, nothing short of sarcastic. One of her eyebrows arched. "What are you planning?"

Frodo slumped slightly, then turned towards her. His expression grew solemn, for he knew what he had to do.

"Delamarth, if you do this for me—if you let Sev live—I will marry you." He swallowed and continued as her eyes bulged. "Not only will I marry you, I will love you." After that vision yesterday, he was convinced he had no other way out of this situation. His eyes sank shut. "I will marry you . . . run away . . . do whatever you wish, love you like you always wanted." His eyes opened again. "Right here, right now. Just let her go."

She almost wanted to in that moment. Searching Frodo's eyes, she knew he meant it. She reached forward reverently, caressing his soft cheek.

"Frodo, my Precious," she whispered. Her voice cracked, and his bonds fell away. He embraced her in a desparate attempt to change her mind about Sev (or at least distract her), and it took her aback. "Oh, love!" She squeezed him close . . . but an aching moment later she knew he couldn't. Sincere as he was, she would always catch him staring out the window, waiting for his beautiful dragon to come sweep him out of Delamarth's grasp.

Frodo stiffened at her freeze. He'd done more than he intended to, hugging her like that, but she had to agree. She had to let Sev go.

Delamarth backed away, shaking her head.

"You still love her more than you ever cared for me," she said numbly, staring up into his eyes. "Enough to let her go, just to save her life." Her gaze hardened. "Well, suffice it to say this will be the easiest way to forget about her."

Delamarth turned and briskly walked away. Frodo moved to follow, but she stopped him.

"No, don't do this anymore, Frodo," she snapped. "You think I've hurt you? I never knew heartache until you . . . you . . . you _spat_ me out like a . . . like a rotten fish!" She shook her head wildly; her voice soaked with venom. "No. You won't let her go, not in your mind, not until she's dead and you understand the bite of losing the one you love."

"Delamarth, I'm asking you to accept me!" Frodo cried. "I'll forget about her, I swear!"

A sadistic, wistful grin crossed her face. "Good. Then it'll be easy not to care when her body drains into the ground, won't it?"

The doors slammed shut and locked behind her.

Frodo banged against the door in protest, fear bubbling within him. He'd done this so often that he knew it wouldn't work, but at least he knew he tried. "Delamarth! Let her go; I'm begging you!"

He didn't have enough time to vent like that, he knew; he'd tried the last time with no success anyway. He turned to the targets, heavy and solid, but he wondered if they would be enough to crash through the bars. He stepped over to the wood and hefted the target a little, allowing his draconic strength to kick in; even as he weight them he knew they wouldn't be heavy enough, like he'd been hoping. He dropped the target, frantically searching for something else he could do. His eyes fell on the torches. He knew it would be a tedious process, but destroying the bars could be done.

Frodo wedged a torch at every end of the bars, into little cracks of stone near enough to them that the flame swallowed the metal. When the chip for the torch wasn't big enough he had to beat it back with the end of the splintered arrow, but that wasn't too much trouble for what he knew was ahead. Preparing for war was never easy.

-0-

Sev patiently knelt on the floor of the Ash Tower. She'd tested the ceiling capacity, and if she stirred the ashes enough she could create a weakened pressure point in the palace tower and destroy a good portion of the whole structure. She also had to stir herself a little before it could become possible. She cleared her mind, ready to fill it up again, this time with surges of powerful energy.

Delamarth, just outside, summoned her skullbirds from the shore, and the entire army gathered in the volcanic chambers under her palace. All were armed and ready . . . perfectly silent. Delamarth stirred a dark wind outside, as well as black clouds that marked the position of the dragon army.

The water stirred as the dragons left the shore of Valinor, and a black storm followed them across the water. They kept low; they knew they wouldn't be perfectly concealed, but they need not emphasize their numbers, not for whatever awaited. They planned to sneak into the palace, and perhaps eliminate the guards outside on the way in.

Frodo spotted them through the slowly melting bars, then settled from the window. He slipped his archer's cuffs around his sleeves with the hope that he could use the one arrow he had to save her life.

Even if it meant shooting Delamarth.

He winced at the thought, but perhaps it would be the only way for him to be free and for Sev to live. He breathed a shaky breath as he picked up his bow.

Sev's lungs swelled, then settled, evenly.

Delamarth's heart thudded with the rising of the storm. Lightning obeyed her pulse, and she held it back: not yet.

 **And thus begins the storm.**


	18. Storm - War of Frodo

**Diem Kieu: Whoo! Thanks! :D  
Muahahahahaa; I hope it stays that way. :)  
*gasp* Assuming you have time; then I am an emphatic yes for that. O.o**

The horde of dragons skimmed the waves, and Delamarth's eyes shot open. A bolt of lightning broke the sky; skullbirds screeched and orcs shouted, flooding out of the palace. Frodo scrambled to don his bow when he heard them, for any moment Delamarth would release Sev and kill her.

While the dragons were taken aback for a moment, Aluekrai pushed them forward. Dragon and skullbird clashed, sending lightning and flame dancing through the iron forest. Archers released volleys of arrows, and a few dragons roared in slight pain: Delamarth had enhanced the tips, not fatal to dragons, but weakening. The dragons clawed soldiers apart, but those were replaced with ten times as many when one went down. Thunder cracked, and lightning shed light over the battle. The electric skullbirds swelled with every bolt, and with their added strength the wrestles between them and dragons knocked over the iron trees.

Frodo grabbed a chain from the floor when the tips of the bars began to drip. He swung the chain around the bars and yanked back. The grid flew back into him, slamming him into the floor and nearly dripping on his skin. He shoved it off, leaped to his feet, and clambered out the window with his bow slung around his shoulders and his arrow in one hand. He entered the thick of the battle, nearly trampled or burned a dozen times before he could form a coherent thought.

He didn't have time to look for Sev; his chains sprouted from his cuffs, locking him against a tree beside a small cliff, a lookout for the western portion of the island. He protested and wrenched against them. He couldn't see Delamarth either.

His desire to find anyone disappeared when the battle grew close to him. He struggled to get away as skullbirds crashed into the cliff behind him, and fire erupted around him.

Sev closed her eyes; she sensed his terror. He was not yet in pain, but she wouldn't simply let him suffer like he did. She stepped back . . .

And then a lick of fire scorched Frodo's shoulder blade, and Sev crumpled. Her eyes widened; he wasn't with Delamarth as she had anticipated, but apparently out in the thick of the battle. Either that or the armies had broken through the palace. She did not care; she had to get out.

She inhaled powerfully, breathing until her lungs were ready to explode. She turned her face towards the floor, summoning all of her strength. She rose into the air, and her fire organ—her gizzard—stirred with awakened agony. She spat a heavy cascade of fire, and the Ash Tower erupted, the floor immediately charring. She turned to the ceiling and let out a powerful cry. Fire burst from within her, crushing the stone as she ascended through her own expended energy. Flames exploded from the top of the tower, bursting into the night, and the entire tower crumbled as she flew up and away from it. All of Amarth's palace collapsed with the weight, and within seconds nothing remained but fire and rubble.

Sev swooped down to join her family, furiously tackling an electric skullbird. She wrestled it towards the water, and it screeched loudly when she leaped under the surface with it. She backed away as it constricted, choked by the sudden race of its energy underwater, and it vanished into particles.

She turned back to find Frodo.

He didn't know if she'd survived the fire, or if being part-hobbit could take such an explosion; he hadn't seen her emerge. He writhed against the tree, but it was no use. His shoulder ached like it never had, a burn untended and still eating the skin. He opened his mouth to call out for Sev . . . and then out of the flames strode Delamarth. She wore an armored dress that defied the firelight. She had a powerful broadsword in one hand and a black spear in the other, and the fire cleared the way as though more aware than anyone of what she could do.

The battle slowed as she approached it. Sauron hobbled after her, wielding a flaming stick. She tossed her head, and he leaped in, doubtlessly not to survive. The fight continued more furiously than before; she nonchalantly carved a scar into more than one dragon, not stabbing around the scales so much as simply slicing right through them. Four dragons collapsed to the ground from her effort, or lack thereof.

When she finished, she spotted Frodo, and her eyes narrowed. She sheathed her sword and approached him.

He scrambled back from her, but not before she reached forward and grasped his jaw.

"And how did you get out, I wonder?" she mused. She threw it off. "No matter. Come, Frodo; I assume your Sevanaan died in that explosion, and so now is the time to get out of here."

Frodo's face paled. "Sev!" he cried. Delamarth nestled close to him, tracing her fingers in his hair. He writhed in place. As though it would work even if he weren't chained to the tree.

Before she could say anything more, a red clump barreled Delamarth aside, slamming her into another tree. Sev grabbed Delamarth's sword and stuck her to the tree with it; the blade embedded into Delamarth's sleeve, locking her in. The sorceress shoved against it in vain.

Sev turned and grabbed Frodo's chain, wrenching it to pieces. She snatched him and didn't let him say another word before she hefted him by his torso and flew him to the top of the cliff. She set him down gently, then glanced back at the battle.

"Stay here," she said softly, so relieved that he was still alive. Frodo grabbed her sleeve and pulled her back to him.

"Sev, we can go now," he insisted. "Come."

Sev paused. "And leave my family to believe we've died and have them suffer for a cause they need not involve themselves in?" She shook her head. "I'll at least let them know we are free." She nodded to the cliff. "Feel free to get a head start; I'll catch up." She smiled somewhat weakly, certain Delamarth would escape and kill her.

Frodo embraced her, squeezing her leathery wings. "Come back to me alive, all right?"

Sev smiled against his shoulder and wrapped her arms around his back. "Of course. I promise, I'll see you again."

Suddenly Sev buckled in his arms, and Delamarth's laugh filled the air. Frodo released Sev, staring down at her back where a strip of blood swelled. Delamarth, now morphed into a siren, spun in the air. She bore no weapons but her own claws.

"Come and fight me, reject!" she shouted.

Frodo shook his head wildly. "Sev, you're hurt!" She tore away from him, conviction darkening her features. "Sev, just get out of here! I'll go with her; you can be healed, become a dragon!"

Sev turned to him. Her voice softly pierced the air . . . and worried him.

"I don't need to be whole, Frodo. I just need you safe."

She sprang off the cliff after Delamarth.

"No! Sev!"

She spread her fingers and tackled Delamarth. The siren shrieked, clawing back. They rolled in the sky, battering each other back and forth. Frodo paced; he felt helpless, unable to get down. Finally he noticed a path down the sheer cliff. He leaped down onto the path—he could see his bow and arrow down by the tree where he'd left them. Gravity pulled him forward, nearly off the cliff, and he backed into the rock. He had to slide down patiently on his feet despite his hurry.

He had one shot, and he had an idea to get Delamarth within range.

Delamarth grabbed Sev's collar; Sev knew this was a battle she would never win. She'd never won against the sorceress, save for the love of the one they both fought for, but perhaps Delamarth would win that as well.

The siren drove Sev towards the ground, slamming her back into the shore. Sev struggled, grouping her feet under Delamarth's stomach to shove her off. She tackled the sorceress, and both took off into the air again. They swerved towards the palace as Delamarth pursued Sev; Sev twisted and turned though the fire. Delamarth could not follow, waiting outside. The fire was still too warm for her.

Sev inhaled slowly, then exhaled a blast of fire at the siren. Delamarth heard it in time and jolted out of the way, but in spite of that the heat grazed her foot. She hissed and flapped her wings angrily. Lightning cracked out of the sky, splitting the air next to Sev. The dragon-girl jolted when it whizzed past her wingtip. The next scraped her back, and she cried out. Delamarth swooped in once again, crushing against her stomach with a sharp elbow until Sev retaliated, throwing the sorceress underneath her.

Frodo frantically grabbed his bow and the arrow, racing for them. He could see them in the sky, furiously rolling over one another; the distance would take them from his sight if he looked away.

Delamarth saw him running and knew she didn't have time, although she assumed he was just running away. She grabbed Sev's jaw, bracing it away from her shoulder, and bit her neck hard. Sev gasped for air, slacking in place at the sudden, stinging pain. Frodo cried her name, nocking his arrow. He breathed deeply, adjusting his aim: the Ring was halted for long enough so far that he knew he could make the shot.

Delamarth grabbed Sev's face and turned it towards herself. Hatred blazed in her core, blind anger she recalled from being with Sauron. Something about it, she knew, wasn't right, but it was too late now.

"You've lost," she hissed. Lightning materialized as a dagger in her claw when she extended it, and as the dragon surveyed her attacker blindly Delamarth drove the weapon into Sev's heart down to the hilt.

As Sev tumbled through the air, Frodo ached as though he had just shattered. Her limp body hit the ground, banging with shock against the inside of his head. He clutched at it, breathing hard as though to run away from reality. His heart raced, and he felt sick.

The shout didn't sound like his own. "No!" Frodo desperately turned back to his target, yanking what had been a half draw back to a full draw, and it barreled through the sky when he released. From the shock his aim was off; the arrow lodged solidly in Delamarth's wing, and her shriek crashed through the air. She collapsed, but fell behind the ruins of the palace.

Frodo waited a long moment, catching his breath. He couldn't bring himself to comprehend the last few moments, and he had to replay the horrifying image again and again in his mind before he felt he could move on. He sank to one knee, then to the other, as he stared at the ground before him. The battle quieted behind him; Delamarth was no longer capable of commanding her army, and they milled about confusedly. Some dragons tended to their wounded, and two approached Frodo from behind.

Finally it hit him.

"Sev!" He leaped up from the ground as Aluekrai locked a claw around his shoulder.

"Wait, Frodo," Aluekrai said gently. He turned back to her somewhat impatiently, waiting for what she had to say. "We are going back to Valinor to heal our wounded. Gandalf and Elrond are bringing a ship to take you home."

Frodo swallowed. "Are you going to take her?"

Aluekrai cocked her head. "No. Take her back with you; I will convince my husband to accept her again, but you must wait."

Frodo nodded hurriedly, and as the dragons took to the sky Frodo raced to Sev's side. Her lungs convulsed powerfully. Frodo wrapped his fingers around the hilt of the dagger; it gave a sickening jolt, and Sev groaned. He struggled and shoved, finally yanking it free. With a cry of sheer exhaustion and pain he hurled it at the sea, then reached for Sev. He didn't know if she was still alive for a minute, until she coughed powerfully.

He wrapped his arms around her fragile torso, bringing her tenderly up to him. Her breath came halted, and she clutched at the hole in her heart. Her eyes eased open, and she smiled as best she could when she saw him.

"Well, hello," she managed, her voice raspy. She winced and gasped, her eyes squeezing shut. Frodo gathered her close to him, and her wings fluttered anxiously. "Didn't think having a slightly stronger dragon heart would ever come in handy . . ."

Frodo bit his lip, thankful she had survived. "Sev, she's gone."k

Sev sighed shakily. "I could imagine that." She inhaled, breathing with a bit of a whimper.

"Oh, Sev," he breathed. Blood covered his fingers, drowning him in the reality that she was dying in his arms. He reached up and traced the hair back from her face, then bit his lip when it left a thick streak of red across her skin. "Sev, Gandalf is coming," he said. "We did it. We'll be all right, I told you."

Sev laughed harshly, then let out a strained cry. Frodo squeezed her closer as though to protect her, but he could do nothing, and he knew it.

She shook her head. "All right? You get stabbed by a dagger and bit in the neck, and you tell me if you're all right." Before he could apologize, she laughed again. "But you're all right now, aren't you?" She reached up and felt his jaw, relishing in the touch. Frodo leaned into her claw, then turned and kissed it gently.

Frodo bit his lip. "Come." He shifted to lift her off the ground, but Sev shook her head, frantic at the faster flow of blood from her heart at the movement.

"No. You can bury me at home, but I don't want to move. Please."

"Bury you!" Tears pricked Frodo's eyes. "We'll make it home, Sev. I promise."

"You cannot promise me anything, Frodo, please don't deny that," she managed. "I'm dying, and there's nothing for it."

A sob crushed Frodo's lungs. "No. Sev . . ." He embraced her, locking her head against his shoulder. "You can't—you can't." He sounded like Sam, he realized, but he didn't entirely care. She couldn't just abandon him. He was already alone, and he'd already lost so much.

Sev smiled weakly; she didn't want to go.

"Of course I can." Then she paused and wriggled away from him. Frodo slowly lowered her again into his lap, and she managed to remove a little pouch from her pocket. She opened it with a great struggle, then breathed fire into it. Steam escaped, and she dipped her fingers into the little pouch. She lifted them back out and reached into Frodo's tunic, rubbing her saved tears on his Morgul stab.

She used almost a whole cup's worth, and Frodo's eyes sank shut with the sudden fight of warmth against the chill in his shoulder that had been a piece of him in the last five or six years. He suddenly felt free. She did the same to the sting in his chest. His eyes drifted open, and then widened.

"Sev!"

She cocked her head slowly. "What?"

His gaze flickered to his shoulder, as though he could take the healing back and give it to her. "Sev, you can't die, not even for you. Why didn't you use that for yourself? You could have come back; you could have healed me later."

She laughed. "No, Frodo." She let the last two drips of her tears to her heart, giving her perhaps a few more minutes with him. But soon she would bleed out; her head grew fuzzier by the second, and so did the image of Frodo in her eyes. She strained to look at him—she wasn't ready to let him go. "You just make me content, remember? I can't cry around you anymore."

"Sev, you haven't been healed," he managed. "You have to be healed before you can go, have to be a dragon like you always wanted."

Sev grinned weakly. She would have to leave that dream behind, along with the dream that mattered to her even more. It was inevitable. She cupped his cheek, and her voice chilled the air for him: despite the fact that he wanted her to keep speaking, keep herself going, he didn't want _those_ words. "I don't have to, Frodo. I told you, I don't want to be healed." She nodded to his shoulder. "You're taken care of . . . and therefore so am I. At least I can see you before I go, away from Delamarth and free of pain."

Frodo trembled. "Please, no," he whispered, tears flooding his eyes. "I'm not whole without you."

She thumbed his tears away—her claw whispered against his brow—and began singing softly despite the ache in her chest. "Why do you weep?" Frodo protested with an unintelligible cry, squeezing her close to him. "What are these tears upon your face?"

"Sev, you can't," he managed. Then he glanced up; a sleek, white ship slid onto the ashy shore. "Sev, they're here! Come!"

She shook her head dizzily. His eyes were blue dots in a fog of black and white; she strained to clear her vision. "Don't say . . . we have come now to the end. White shores are calling . . . the ships have come to carry you home . . ." Her eyes squeezed shut. She felt herself fading. Her nerves trickled to numbness, starting at her toes.

"Frodo . . ."

He glanced down at her as Elrond quickly approached.

"I love you." Tears pricked at her eyes, not enough to more than prolong the agony of them both. "But you have to let me go." Her voice rasped and faded. "For your sake."

Her eyes cleared a little, and she realized just how distraught he was. Feeling drifted away from her torso, and in an act of desperation she grabbed his collar and dragged him close to her; she started with a soft kiss against his mouth, and he let out a hesitant, pained moan when she weakly pulled away. He brought her back and kissed her intently, brushed his lips over hers with all the desperation and pain of one who saw his need and could not meet it. Her fingers left marks of blood on his neck, but he cared not. He felt her, pushed to caress her, kissed her with every bit of feeling he had left. Any moment he would have to let her go, but for now he could tell her he wanted her. Tears flooded against her lips from his.

She pulled away, and her final whisper pierced the air as she felt his heart before her fingers failed for good.

"The ache is gone."

 **And thus is your climax based on "Storm"! I would love feedback on this chapter if you guys have any. Thanks! :)**


	19. Wounds That Go Too Deep

**Diem Kieu: Yeah . . . I was feeling angsty that day. :P And the day after that . . . and the day after that . . .  
Thanks! :D Well; sort of. O.o  
Yeah! :) It'll be a few chapters, though, but I have two or three other stories that I need to upload. :P And edit ****_before_** **I upload. O.O I'll be looking forward to them! 4 days to go . . . . . .  
DFTYA! X)**

A matter of minutes later, Sev slacked in his arms; he felt for her pulse, but found nothing more than empty echoes. Frodo shed a myriad of silent tears over her, refusing to get up. The rumbles of an angry volcano echoed through the air, but he did not heed them. Her last words echoed through his mind, the symbol of what she had always been and what she had always fought for. And at the last minute she'd let him go.

He didn't know if he could ever forget her, let her go as she had him.

Elrond attempted to coax Frodo to his feet; the island was ready to collapse. Frodo laid Sev gently on the ground, his hand resting over her claw. He bit his lip and turned away. He wanted to be furious, angry, at something, but it would not come: he could blame nothing. Delamarth, perhaps, but he didn't feel the need to be bitter when he realized she was at fault. Sorrow and desire alone filled the emptiness within him. He swayed in place.

To feel her neck and realize there was no pulse under his fingers frightened him, drew more tears to his face. He pulled to his feet at last, but did not leave her side.

"Frodo Baggins!" Gandalf shouted as ash exploded through the air. Frodo stared up; he didn't have time to react before the ground at his feet cracked and carried Sev away. A sheet of lava sprang up, blocking her from him.

"Sev!" Frodo cried. He moved to leap across when the lava settled, but Elrond grabbed his shoulders: the distance was too much. Frodo scrambled against Elrond's hold; the bow on his back and the pouch in his hand were all he had left of her, but he needed everything. He watched helplessly as the island carried her far away. Elrond hastily guided him into the little ship, and Gandalf shoved off. The center of the island where Delamarth's palace once stood now burst with lava. The ground crumbled precariously.

Frodo's heart lurched. Sev jostled with the movement in the earth . . . and then her body plunged into the sea; a cascade of rock followed, likely crushing her. She would be irretrievable.

He nearly leaped in after her, but Elrond grabbed his cloak and yanked him back. "Sev!"

0

They crossed the channel within minutes, but Frodo's eyes were still fixed on the island, which quickly became a plume of smoke in the distance. Gandalf didn't try to comfort him, and Elrond remained silent—both were intent to get home.

The ship gently glided onto the sand and stuck there. Elrond and Gandalf disembarked to greet the squadron of elves that stood on shore to meet them; Frodo didn't move. He didn't even register they had stopped. If he thought he'd felt broken before, he was shattered now. He envied the island; it had Sev forever. It could crumble and everyone left it alone. It could grow again, assuming the volcano erupted enough.

In that moment he also envied Delamarth in a distant, sorrowful sort of way: he didn't know if she was dead, but if she was he wanted to be as well. He ached all over, and his burn itched powerfully, bringing him back into the present time.

A pair of kind elves reached forward and lifted him from the ship, setting him down on his feet in the cool, white sand. There was no mist, there were no dark clouds. Frodo blinked at the sudden sunlight. Light surrounded him: his wounds were gone. Valinor itself attempted to repair him, and started to cause him to forget. He smiled up at the kind elves that helped him, peace flooding him once again.

But then his gaze turned back; he was looking for Sev. Somehow he forgot she wasn't here anymore.

His eyes caught the tower of smoke, and Valinor lost some of its hold on him. He sank in place, sitting down. Gandalf joined him.

"Frodo . . ."

Frodo shook his head. "Perhaps even Valinor cannot repair me now, Gandalf." He stood, barring the tears from his eyes. "She told me to let her go, but I'm not sure I can." He glanced back down at the wizard. "She healed me, in so many different ways."

Gandalf sighed and clapped Frodo's shoulder. "And a good thing too," the wizard said, and Frodo shot him a glance. "For I have grave news."

Frodo's heart sank; he couldn't imagine how things could get much worse.

"The dragons flew us to this shore starting this morning," Gandalf said, his voice growing taut. "Bilbo is not faring well, Frodo. He is dying, and we must get back quickly."

Frodo's eyes widened, and he sank once again by Gandalf's side.

"Come," Gandalf insisted, bringing Frodo to his feet. They followed the elves back into the forests of Valinor.

Frodo took one last glance at the island when he heard a mighty roar of anguish: Aluekrai flew over the wreckage of the island, Malachthar at her side. The dragons spotted him and dove into the forest after them; Sev's mother collided hard with the sand, pounding across the white earth towards Frodo. The elves slowed, and Frodo glanced up at the dragon, his eyes red.

"Where is she?" Aluekrai managed. "Where is my girl?"

Frodo swallowed and stared at the ground.

"She sacrificed herself for me." He didn't know how Aluekrai would take it, but in that moment he did not fear death at all.

Aluekrai glanced back at Malachthar, who bowed his head. "A worthy cause, I suppose," he said hesitantly. "She will be remembered as one of us. Thank you, Ringbearer." Then he paused. "Although the Emperor will wish to hear a report." He extended his claw. "Frodo, you will come with us."

Gandalf stepped forward. "His sole surviving family member is dying, Malachthar. He can give his report following the other Ringbearer's passing."

Malachthar glared, but did not push it. He backed away and nodded to Frodo.

"We will fly you home," Aluekrai said gently. Tears rolled down her face, sizzling against the sand when they dropped. "I'm sure you will wish to say farewell to your uncle." She lowered her neck for Frodo to mount, and he reluctantly leaped between her horns. She left the others to mount Malachthar, desiring to speak to Frodo alone.

"How did she die?" Aluekrai asked. For being a dragon, her voice was very soft. She reminded Frodo of Sev, and it brought tears to his eyes to think of it.

He gripped the horn in front of him and closed his eyes. "Delamarth bit her neck, and stabbed her through the heart. She bled to death . . ." Frodo removed the little sack she'd used to cage her tears until she could heal him. It had red stains all over it, as did his cloak, his legs, and his torso. A dark red handprint stained the white mark where darkness once plagued him; he pressed his own hand over the shadow of what might have been. "In my lap."

Aluekrai turned towards him slightly, gently remaining below the cloud cover. "I'm sorry, Frodo."

He shook his head. "She told me to let her go."

"Assuming it is for the best," Aluekrai countered. "Sometimes letting go is not the best; if you'd let her go when she disappeared last year, you never would have found her. But perhaps now is the time to do so, if she cannot come back." Then Aluekrai paused, but shook it away.

Suddenly Frodo had a thought. "Aluekrai, can dragons heal death?"

Aluekrai distractedly shook her head. "I'm afraid not. Dragon tears can only sear pieces back together; the soul cannot be recovered."

Frodo sank back against her horn; he relaxed his eyes. Why, when Delamarth was ripped from him, did she miraculously survive and Sev could not? He knew he didn't love Delamarth nearly as much; he forgot her during his entire stay in Valinor, until he brought it up with Sev. But now he couldn't get Sev out of his mind; those last raspy whispers, her blood on his hands, her soft lips caressing his.

There had to be some way to heal . . . but he didn't know if he wanted to.

He thought about it a great deal on the way home. He concluded that she wanted him to forget everything that had happened not only in Middle Earth, but on Amarth as well, that she could have healed herself but didn't to save his sanity. Well, from his perspective at the time that backfired: he wanted to remember hope he had in darkness. That was how he remembered and wanted Sam as well, for being the one piece of light in his empty, upside-down world. He smirked a little to himself—perhaps it was a pattern in the children raised by Gaffer. Maybe he just should have moved in with the Gamgees, he thought jocosely.

But he had, briefly, before leaving for Valinor. He'd tried to let Sam help him; perhaps it required a bit more than just company, a little bit more than just light. Healing, certainly, and Sev had done that.

He concluded after all that that leaving him wasn't the best thing she could do . . . unless her decision—whether to stay with him or her parents—was too much pressure, and death on Frodo's behalf as well as the dragons' was the only way out.

Aluekrai said nothing while they continued on. Frodo wanted to ask about what Sev had been when she was younger, but he realized with a pang that the dragon had never even met her daughter . . . and still loved her. Frodo leaned up and caressed the dragon's neck—she startled, staring back at him.

"Aluekrai, what do you want to know about her?"

The dragon paused, and her voice cracked as she considered. Finally she halted in the air, flapping her wings powerfully as she regarded him.

"Everything, Frodo Baggins; everything."

0

Aluekrai lowered him gently in the midst of the Elvish ziggurats, far ahead of Malachthar. Frodo thanked her as he walked away. Then he turned and surveyed her expression, sorrow torn between regret and wistfulness.

"To tell you the truth," Aluekrai said, her voice lowered, "I convinced Malachthar to let her go. He didn't like to be insulted, and he planned to destroy Hobbiton looking for her." She swallowed, looking away. "I thought he would break the egg, so I told him we should go to Valinor and forget about her."

Frodo approached her and gently laid a hand on her huge cheekbone. Her tears trailed down his arm, flooding him with strength.

"You are a good lad, Frodo," she sighed shakily, lowering her head to the ground. She brought up her claw and gingerly traced his jaw. "I give you a dragon's blessing, that you will live to see happiness again, manifest in ways you would never expect." She cupped him in her claw. "I bless you with the lifetime of a dragon, that you will be a welcome blessing to my kind and to the generations following you. Your work did not finish with the destruction of the Ring, Frodo; it but continues on here. The doors of our empire are always open to you—Ringbearer of the Shire."

Frodo swallowed. "Thank you, Aluekrai." He again let his fingers linger on her cheek. "I will do my best to live up to your promise."

She laughed slightly. "Live up to it? Nonsense; you already have." She gently nuzzled his hair. "I feel my daughter in you, Frodo . . . I'm glad someone strong and kind like you stayed to love her."

She set Frodo down as tenderly as she could, then turned and took to the sky.

Frodo wondered at Bilbo's experience with dragons in contrast to his own. He wondered what sort of rotten egg Smaug had to be to be so greedy . . . and then he noticed Aluekrai's belly was dotted with glittering jewels. He laughed to himself; perhaps Smaug was simply an introvert with an appetite.

The hobbit turned back towards his home, breathing a heavy sigh when he realized that perhaps this would be the last time he ever saw his uncle. He bit his lip and ascended the stairs with a solemn heart; he didn't think he would lose so many loved ones so soon, and still remember all of his old scars. At least two of them were gone.

Frodo rubbed the white scar where Sev had mended his wound, where her claws had so tenderly traced his skin. He shook his head, approaching Bilbo's room. He breathed shakily; everything here was so bright, nothing like his life had been for a few months. Returning home was so surreal . . . what would he do with himself? Sev wasn't coming back.

He knocked gently on Bilbo's room.

"Come in!" Bilbo sounded as cheerful as ever, but a few coughs escaped him, and his voice rasped. Frodo winced as he opened the door.

Bilbo smiled through his age and patted the bed. "Come, Frodo, my lad," he managed. Frodo dropped by his uncle's side, softly wrapping his fingers around the old hand. Bilbo trembled when he saw his nephew.

"You're healed, my boy," Bilbo said wonderingly. He traced Frodo's face with a trembling finger. "You're eyes are bright again!"

Frodo wanted to shake his head, wanted to say that Sev and Bilbo meant too much to him. But Bilbo was right; he'd let Delamarth go, had been able to do what was necessary. He no longer felt her effects, perhaps for how Sev's death plagued him.

Bilbo beckoned for Frodo to bend down close; he was running out of breath. "I just want you to promise me one thing, Frodo."

Frodo lowered close, and Bilbo kissed his forehead. "Promise me you'll marry that dragon girl and have more little ones than I can count. And name the first boy after me!"

Frodo buckled, nearly crushing his uncle's chest with his head. He slacked against the bed, and tears swelled in his eyes. Bilbo thought to comfort him, unsure what he'd done wrong.

"My lad!" Bilbo tried to sit up. "My lad, that wouldn't be so hard, would it?"

Frodo's jaw dropped, trying to form words. His eyes squeezed shut with the weight of pain on his heart; it was too much. He moved to tell Bilbo that Sev was dead, that she would have been Frodo's and Frodo would have kept his promise, save that she was not around to do it.

But instead he found himself saying what he wished he could.

"I will, uncle," he whispered. "The first boy will be named after you—I promise." Frodo swallowed; it felt like his dream, with Delamarth, save not so unnatural. It flowed despite his aching need to tell the truth. "I wish you could see him."

Bilbo smiled shakily. "I see you . . . and that is enough. I bid you a very fond farewell, my nephew."


	20. Anaska-Tei

**Diem Kieu: Is it a bad thing to say that I'm glad it did? XP I guess I kind of designed it to be that way. :D  
That was sad-I liked Bilbo. :(  
Thanks! X)**

The elves bore Bilbo on a bright slab of white marble with beautiful handles of oak, inscribed with graceful knot patterns in silver. Across the marble slab, on the left side, was carved a blessing of the Elves, and on the right a blessing of the dragons. Aluekrai came to witness the burial.

Frodo walked alongside his uncle, yet another adventure he would take without his beloved surrogate father. The elves led Frodo, Aluekrai, and all others attending down to the shore, by the egg-shaped mountain of crystals.

Elrond turned to Aluekrai and gestured to Frodo. The dragon lowered her claw for Frodo to sit in, and the elves placed Bilbo on Frodo's lap. Frodo wanted to ask what they were doing, but before he could Aluekrai lowered her head towards him.

"This mountain is their burial ground," she whispered.

Frodo's brow creased. He didn't understand.

"And when we find Chaaempier's body, we will bury her here as well."

Frodo's heart gave a lurch; it almost haunted him to think of seeing her broken body again. He glanced up, and she smiled weakly at him before lowering him gently into the mountain.

Aluekrai let him down onto the floor of the mountain, by the pool of water.

"Put him in," she said gently.

Frodo breathed shakily, staring down at his uncle. He could hear the elves outside, chanting their blessing. Aluekrai joined them; their voices soothed Frodo as he held his uncle's limp body, the initial smile etched into Bilbo's relaxed, peaceful features. Tears raced down Frodo's face as he kissed his uncle's cheek.

Finally the elves quieted. Aluekrai whispered into the mountain, and it echoed through the cavern.

"We will leave you to do it," Aluekrai said softly, "and to say any last words you wish to."

Frodo nodded to her, then waited a few minutes for her to leave. He had already said his last words to Bilbo, but as he laid the frail body in the water he sighed shakily.

"I wish I could keep your promise, uncle," he wanted to say. But it didn't come out. He said instead, "I promise, uncle. Bilbo will live on."

Where this hope came from, Frodo didn't understand. Sev was dead, and now Bilbo was as well. Perhaps Aluekrai had blessed him with the opportunity to find a new wife; he did not know.

Frodo stood above the pool, waiting. The sun set what seemed to be moments later, and moonshine streamed softly into the mountain, shining on Bilbo. Light flickered through the small lagoon, and Frodo stepped back as the water washed Bilbo up onto shore. Frodo waited more, unsure why he didn't try to place his uncle in again. Something warned him to stay away.

With every push and shove of the water's movement, Bilbo grew more and more bright, until a crack sounded. Frodo's eyes widened when Bilbo began to crumple, shriveling and then hardening until his skin grew into a white diamond, the largest crystal in the cavern. Tears stung Frodo's eyes, and he bowed slightly.

"I love you, Bilbo."

Frodo waited a little while longer until the moon passed on. He slipped into the little pool of water, stroking the crystal: it had a gel exterior, trembling at his touch and hardening. He dove under, unable to bear the emotional weight anymore.

But at least he knew he could let go.

-0-

Frodo had no motivation or desire left; he did not eat, he did not sleep, he did not move. Everyone left him alone for a few days until Malachthar returned, loudly announcing that the Emperor's Circle wished to meet Frodo, and learn of Chaaempier's death. To that point her body had not been found, but water dragons were diligently digging the rubble apart to find her remains.

Despite Gandalf's insistence that Malachthar leave Frodo alone, Frodo descended the stairs of the ziggurat slowly. He approached Malachthar with an unreadable expression; pain lingered behind his face, as did the desire to be alone. But he did not want to ruin his welcome to the dragons that Aluekrai had given him on Sev's behalf, and so accepted their invitation.

Malachthar allowed Frodo to ride him, soaring over the vast lands of Valinor. Frodo realized Sev must have explored here. He saw herds of dragons milling about, myriads roaming the skies as though they owned them, which they did. Many bowed to Malachthar, and others simply nested in their lands. Frodo watched the eggs; they were almost his size, and he couldn't imagine Sev laying four of them in a year.

He'd rather she lay eggs—much as it frightened him to think of such an oddity—than be gone.

Malachthar took him over forests, deserts, plains, and beaches, the world Frodo didn't know he hadn't seen. They passed mighty mountains, soared over heavy rain, skimmed trees of all kinds.

Finally they arrived in a region of snow. Heavy clouds reigned the sky, and dragons of daunting majesty accompanied them inside. These dragons were larger than the ones Frodo had seen outside. He drew his cloak closer to him with the chill of the air, and with the terrifying presence of grand mountains, towering in the sky beyond his realm of vision. The mountains dropped below his sight as well, and he shuddered, clinging to Malachthar's warm neck.

Malachthar finally dropped down inside a fiery cavern, where a host of dragons were gathered around a great bonfire. Three spits bore a feast, a feast eighteen times Frodo's entire mass and size. He swallowed when he saw it; the meat mildly resembled horses.

The Circle was murmuring, and the dragons halted when Frodo stepped onto the ground. All of them sat rigid as Malachthar approached, taking his seat beside an empty throne of jewels and gold.

Frodo dropped to one knee; these dragons were the epitome of grace and terror, grand and wise with eyes that glimmered with knowledge and power. One great dragon stepped inside a moment later, followed by a smaller one, a rather slender, wiry dragon. But when Frodo looked into the small dragon's eyes—red like simmering coals—he knew who the Emperor was.

When the small dragon crouched upon the throne, the other dragons bowed. In the firelight all appeared to be the same color, just different shades. Frodo peered slightly into the shadows, and got a glimpse of their jeweled tones. The Emperor's color was difficult to discern, perhaps black, definitely very dark.

His voice pierced the cavern. It was not deep, nor was it high, but calm and wise.

"Rise, Ringbearer."

Frodo stood and approached the fire. The Emperor did not speak again; the other dragons bombarded Frodo with questions, grilling him for information about what Sev had done, what she was like. Frodo found himself telling them everything about her, and they began to talk over one another.

The Emperor reached up to the grand dragon by his side, neither of whom had said anything. He whispered something in the larger dragon's ear, then settled. Frodo covered his ears; he guessed by how wide the dragon's mouth opened, this would be loud.

"Silence," she commanded.

The dragons' conversation slowed to a halt, and the Emperor stood beside the large dragon, the one Frodo assumed was the Emperor's mate.

"Come, Frodo," the Emperor said softly. "I require a word or two with you."

Frodo circled the fire and followed the Emperor into another chamber. The Emperor's mate gestured Frodo inside, and then he noticed she had a great gash in her chest.

The Emperor sat down on another throne, in a far more modest room with a smaller, brighter fire. Frodo realized that the Emperor was indeed black, and his mate red.

"I simply wanted to bring to your attention how much we mourn the passing of Bilbo Baggins." The Emperor's eyes grew distant. "He was a wonderful creature, and assisted in the destruction of Smaug, my Empress's former mate and the last of the Savages, stepbrother of Aluekrai."

Frodo bowed slowly.

The Emperor chuckled. "No need to keep silent. I know you loved your uncle very dearly." Then he grew solemn. "To the second matter: my Circle has not yet made the vote, but based upon what you've told us I know if they are just they will consider Chaaempier among the dragon martyrs of history."

Tears pricked Frodo's eyes. "Thank you, great one."

"'Great one' is not my title, but yours," the Emperor said reverently. "Anaska-tei, that is what they are calling you. Amarth is gone, thanks to you and to Chaaempier, daughter of Malachthar. Dragons are free again to fly over the seas." The Emperor smiled wryly. "The skullbirds are vicious; do you not agree?"

Frodo nodded. "Indeed, Your Majesty."

The Emperor cocked his head. "You are yet troubled, Frodo Baggins. What is it?"

The Empress lowered her claw for Frodo to be seated in; the former mate of Smaug, he realized. Frodo had no doubt this dragon's scar came from that ordeal, but he turned his mind from it and back to the Emperor.

"Is it true, mighty one, that death cannot be repaired?"

Frodo's breath caught when the Emperor nodded. "Dragons are incapable of the soul's restitution," he said gravely. "I am sorry, but Chaaempier is not one we can recover for you."

"Then there is no need to search for her body," Frodo said quietly.

The Emperor's eyebrow arched. "Oh?"

Frodo nodded. "With all due respect, wise Emperor, I watched her fall. If anything her body is likely in pieces by now. If you do find her remains, I would not see them; it would grieve my heart too much to see her torn so."

The Emperor nodded. "Of course, Ringbearer. The search shall be cut off if you wish it."

Frodo swallowed, then nodded. "I do wish it," he whispered. "Thank you, wise Emperor, and all of your kind." He turned to leave, but the Emperor stopped him.

"Hold, Anaska-tei. Nithkerekk would like to speak with you."

Frodo halted. "Nithkerekk?"

A muscled, slender dragon emerged from the shadows behind the Emperor. Compared to every dragon Frodo had seen thus far, he looked young and rather beautiful: a spectrum of silvers spread over his scales from the firelight, and an array of jewels covered his underbelly. His eyes pierced Frodo, electric green and dominating.

"I am the betrothed of Chaaempier," Nithkerekk said. He had the deep voice of a proud, silent warrior, and Frodo feared him immediately. The hobbit regained his composure and processed the words of the great creautre.

He set his expression in stone, faced the dragon, and bowed slightly. "I am sorry for your loss."

Nithkerekk waved it aside. "It was only a loss of prestige; marrying the first daughter of a noble would have been a great honor for my family, but I'm certain I could find another."

Suddenly all of Frodo's frustration from discussing Sev with Malachthar bubbled over. He straightened in place, his eyes narrowed, but his voice stayed low. "Loss of prestige? Nithkerekk, you do not know Chaaempier. It would have been an honor for you to wed her, for she would have cared and sacrificed for you above anything else. Look at the noble things she has done! And you think you have not lost anything?"

"I am simply accepting the fact that I will never know what I've lost," Nithkerekk challenged. "She was a reject; she named herself for it." Then he settled, flicking his emerald gaze to the Emperor. "Of course, you would be one to think highly of her: you received her first blessing. Your bond with her is greater than it will ever be with another, I'm sure."

Despite Nithkerekk's calmer visage, Frodo felt a challenge in those words, a jealousy that Nithkerekk had not received Sev's first blessing as was his right as her betrothed.

The dragon continued. "I saw her die. I fought for her life, and I watched you . . ." His spat out his next words before settling back in to a calm state. " _Kiss_ her, as though you owned her. Somehow I wonder if she saw through your lack of respect for her. They call you Anaska-tei, but do they really know what you are?"

Before Frodo could even be tempted to fight back, the Emperor held up a claw. "That is enough, Nithkerekk. The Ringbearer has saved our kind from the skullbirds and restored honor to the entire line of Malachthar; would you dare challenge your allegience to the hero of your lands as well as your Emperor?"

Nithkerekk flinched at the retort. "No, my lord."

The Emperor nodded to him. "Now leave us. I now know how I shall set up your match."

The dragon faded into the darkness, but not before he shot another slight glare at Frodo. Frodo squared his shoulders in defense but said nothing.

"My apologies for his impertinence," the Emperor sighed. "Losing Chaaempier dealt a great blow to his family, and his jealousy and pride rule him more greatly than they ought." He nodded to the cave door. "I appreciate you coming. Now you must go; may your journey find you peace, Anaska-tei."


	21. Molten White - Fall of the One Ring

**Diem Kieu: I don't think he can either. :P I wonder if this chapter will help or hinder. ;)  
Thanks! *sniffle* Watching Frodo bury his uncle is admittedly a little saddening. :/ I could see Sev turning into a red crystal, I guess. And him into a streaked one (because I make excuses for protagonists like that), white with dark brown and blue gem streaks.  
Oh, he is; heck, I'd rather die than end up with Nithkerekk. I feel like he was a play on a stereotype, of the attractive creature gone sour, but he's not antagonistic so much as just self-absorbed. He might have been a good creature-had his parents not raised him to be full of himself. :P Which I guess is why the Emperor betrothed him to Malachthar's firstborn anyway.  
*GASP* Ghost! I want to write a ghost story now. XP**

The Empress flew him back to the Elvish ziggurats. He did not speak, and neither did she. He found as they traveled that she could say little, that she could manage a word from time to time but that her throat did not work as well as most unless she boomed her words. Aluekrai saw him before he left, and told him that the Empress would not respond to questions: Smaug had blown fire through her ears when she threatened to leave him, and her mind now did not quite work correctly.

The Empress lowered him softly to the ground, and he thanked her. But before she could turn away, there was one question he wanted to ask.

"What is your name?"

The Empress smiled. "Yuachtaa, the seer." Her voice rumbled through the woods with the pace of one that does not think quickly. She lowered her head and blinked slowly. "And I see happiness for you, Frodo, and for Chaaempier."

Frodo smiled sadly and nodded, not willing to cut through to the Empress and insist that Sev was dead. The well-meaning dragon took off slowly, and Frodo backed away before she was even out of sight.

He spent the next few weeks wandering the beaches of Valinor. He wished he could marry Sev; he wished he could apologize to Delamarth. He began to feel peace concerning her, realized that perhaps her fate was not his fault. He sorrowed over not being able to love her, but something ostensibly calmed him, the realizaton that maybe things would be all right—that, in spite of all he had done or not done, he could do nothing to change it.

He stood on the border of the sea when he heard a loud flapping. He turned, only to see a black shape shambling in the distance. He raced towards it; it was caught in a net. He grabbed the ropes of the net, yanking them away from the creature.

It coughed, its voice rasping slightly. Frodo's eyes bulged when he spotted an arrow embedded in its wing, a clump of dried blood searing the arrow to it. _Her_ , he decided as he studied the slope of its back.

"Thank you," the creature managed, then stared up. It was certainly Delamarth; Frodo's eyes widened in surprise, and his heart thudded at every memory that came flooding back to him. She had scars all over, and some of the feathers on her wings were missing. She gasped when she saw him, and she scrambled away.

Frodo raced after her as she attempted to run, but she was too weak and too hurt to get far without him. "Delamarth, wait!"

Delamarth limped away—that didn't last long before she lost her balance and collided with the ground.

Frodo caught up to her easily. He moved to grab her, but he quickly realized she was still Delamarth, although no longer the Ring.

His stomach gave a lurch as he studied her face, that face trapped between his pain and his passion. Perhaps she was meant to be his future, the happiness Aluekrai had promised.

Frodo threw the notion from his mind; he considered that it was just a silly thought . . . he shook his head. Studying her he knew; it was the most logical thing solution he'd come up with since Sev died and he knew it. He reached forward, ignoring his hesitation, and lifted Delamarth from the ground. She writhed weakly against him, shoving on his shoulder.

"Frodo, what if I . . . what if I hurt you?" She swallowed, not daring to look at him. She sobbed against his arm as he carried her back to the ziggurats; her cries resembled a bird's wail, dangerous and not pitiful at all in spite of the words she spoke. "Frodo, I killed her! I killed her!" Her voice escalated in pitch, but softened a little in decibel. "I didn't know you were here. I killed her; I didn't mean to come after you, I promise!"

She babbled the whole way up the stairs, refused and wriggled as Frodo carried her to his room. He maneuvered to open the door and laid her down on the bed inside. She protested until her back met the mattress; she stared up at him with wide eyes.

"Delamarth," Frodo said sternly, "I'm going to take care of you." He stroked her cheek, but he couldn't possibly bring himself to love her, not then. Those golden eyes . . . the echo of them in his mind when she slapped him. He backed away, grabbing salves and bandages from a nearby table. Sev had designed the room to have those medicines, and he bit his lip; he had to stop thinking about that, for his own sake. He stared up for a fleeting moment at the balcony where he'd held Sev the night before she was kidnapped.

Delamarth snorted. "I haven't married you and you still stare out the window." Then a whimper escaped her. "Frodo, I'm so sorry!"

Frodo cocked his head, biting back a solid berate. "Why are you sorry? I know you didn't like her."

"No," Delamarth said. "But you did." She swallowed. "And coming to Valinor, I . . . Frodo, I feel so dark, so wrong." She sniffled. "I never should have hurt you. I never realized just how much I pained you, and . . . and I'm sorry I couldn't let go."

Frodo smiled sadly. "You did let go, didn't you? At Mount Doom, you let me go . . . and not for yourself." He smiled and stroked her hair back, tending to a small cut across her forehead. He still couldn't think of her as more than a sibling or a good friend, or an old enemy, despite his best efforts. "You loved me, Delamarth. But now that you're here you can see in you what I always have."

Her brow furrowed. "Which is what?"

"Humanity, Delamarth." He smiled softly, and Delamarth grinned at the sight. She never thought she could see him smile for _her_. "You learned what it feels like to be mortal, I think. You certainly look more human." He brushed the feathers back on her wing, and they all peeled away into a pile on the floor to white fluff against her skin. "I think you've been molting."

Delamarth sighed. "Yes, I have. I'm no longer a siren. I tried to sing, and I made a fool of myself."

Frodo laughed outright, and she glared at him. "It's not funny, Frodo Baggins." She swatted him with the back of her hand.

The hobbit finally brought his laughter to a halt, brushing the feathers from the rest of her. She relaxed at his tender touch, touch she never knew she would feel. She helped him, releasing the feathers from her torso and upper legs.

"What happened to Smeagol?" Frodo asked finally.

Delamarth blew a raspberry. "He's becoming a king to the sirens." She threw it off. "All he ever wanted was beauty to himself, and he flattered and interested them so much that they decided not to eat him. He's teaching them to catch fish."

Frodo laughed again. "Wonderful." He grabbed the arrow and snapped it, hoping she would keep distracted. She let out a strong scream, and Frodo winced as he removed the entire shaft from her wing.

She gasped for air, grasping at her shoulder. Frodo peeled the scab away; it was a nasty one, surrounding and attempting to heal the hole. Frodo scrambled to salve and wrap the wound tightly, but soon blood covered the bandage as well, and left a great puddle on the sheets.

"I'm sorry," he said quickly, "but better that than have you die of infection." Then he sighed and trembled with what he knew would be a harsh response from her. "I apologize for shooting you."

Delamarth smiled kindly, something he'd never seen her do before, but there was a stinging glimmer of what her response might have been that lingered behind her eyes. "Never mind that; I understand why you did it." Delamarth swallowed and glanced down at the bed. "I saw her body in the rubble. I thought you fell in, and I went after her."

Frodo resisted squeezing his eyes shut, but didn't manage to hide his hurt wince. "Was she crushed?"

Delamarth shook her head, sympathetically laying a hand over his own . . . although a wicked part of her was glad she had Frodo to herself now. "No, but she almost was. I already started to feel awful, I suppose, and I got her out of the way of the rocks. She's in a crevice, a little safe spot between a few boulders."

Frodo sighed, tears racing down his face. "Thank you," he whispered.

Delamarth squeezed his hand. "Anything for you, Frodo." She sighed, tracing her fingertips over his smooth knuckles. "I'm afraid, despite all my molting, I still haven't managed to get over you yet."

Frodo tipped her jaw so she faced him. "You don't have to," Frodo said gently. "You don't just get over love, Delamarth." He stroked her hair, but he couldn't shake the feeling that she wasn't more than an associate, a companion at most, a love-hate enemy at least. All that time, all those thoughts and memories; terror initially filled his stomach.

"That's what I'm worried about," she muttered. She turned her head away from him. "You'll never love again like you did her."

He paused, then laid his hand on her shoulder. "I've been given a blessing by her mother," he said softly, "that I will find happiness again, a great deal of it." Then he coughed, uncertain if he wanted to say what he felt like telling her. His eyes shifted to her, then away, and back and forth. "And on Amarth, I had a vision, and I think I will marry you."

Delamarth turned, epiphany and excitement lining her humanized, golden eyes. But then her gaze fell at his evident uncertainty.

"No," she whispered. "Frodo, you've been more kind to me than any other creature in my life, and I love you more than anything." She sighed, stroking his hand. "And I could provide you with a family, what with my adjustment from Orodruin to Amarth. But Frodo . . . I don't think I could make you happy. I fear changing you; I've already done it, and I confess I don't know what to think of you." Her voice cracked. "It would pain me to live every day and know that I wasn't as dear to your heart as she was; it would be torture to see that little lifeless gleam in your eyes . . ." She reached up, cupping his cheek. Frodo initially wanted to yank back, but he allowed his face to settle against her palm. In spite of her vocal persistence Frodo felt the possessive grasp of her fingertips. Her eyes studied his features harshly, owning them. Her "And know that you missed her more than I could ever repair, that it was my crime that destroyed the one you love; my blindness, my lack of willingness to let go. Well, you said I'm human now, and I can let you go. I know I can."

Frodo grasped her hand with both of his own. He had nothing if she left. "Please, Delamarth."

She shook her head. "You need time, at least." She sat up. "And I need a life for myself, something away from you until I know I'm worthy of you." She locked her fingers behind his neck and brushed her lips against the corner of his mouth, half easing into an actual kiss. Try as he might, he could not convince himself, although his mouth did slack open with the innate shock of her touch, and the initiative to kiss her himself. Perhaps she felt the barrier he did; if so he wished to break it. He attributed his hesitance to irrational fear. "I'll stay until this stops bleeding," she said softly, "but then I'm getting out of here."

Frodo shook his head desperately; he decided he had to succumb to both of their desires if he were to convince her to stay. Perhaps if he made one small move it would submit her to marry him. He reached forward, his heart thudding, and cupped Delamarth's face in his hands. She surveyed him skeptically when his gaze flickered to her mouth; he leaned forward and eased his lips cautiously against hers. Delamarth inhaled sharply, and a moan escaped her when she responded. It took Frodo aback; he went dizzy. Had he been able to process, he would have heard the yelp in the back of his throat when she pressed him close to her. She stood and wrapped her arms around him, caging him and kissing him with everything she had. Frodo nearly blacked out with the pressure, the innate confusion swirling around in his head with no room against this sudden, deep affection trapping him. He felt like he was drowning.

Finally her lips broke away from his, and he could breathe again. He realized then that his knees were buckled, that she'd been holding him up.

Delamarth leaned forward to kiss him again, her golden irises illuminated with something that initially scared him out of his wits. But then her gaze shifted to his eyes. He tried to close them, to avoid letting her know what he thought. He leaned forward—although frightened—to kiss her again, but she tipped up his chin and shook her head.

"Frodo, you don't care for me like I love you," she said, defeated. She released him and stepped back, slipping down against the bed once more. He tried to protest, but she carried forward. "You wouldn't be able to handle it. If that kiss burdened you so much, the extent of my love for you would kill you."

"Delamarth, pain or no pain, you're all I have!" Frodo cried. That kiss lingered on his mouth; he tried to push his fear and resentment away, knowing that he would obtain his future in one swipe if he tried again, but it would also take away his capacity to abide her presence. "Sev is gone, Bilbo is dead! Please, you're all I have left."

Delamarth's jaw dropped. "Bilbo?" she managed. She cupped her jaw, lying back down.

Frodo paused. "You cared for him too?"

She nodded quickly. "Probably to the extent that you care for me, Frodo. Not to love, not to marry, but for a time I thought him attractive." She swallowed and glanced back up at him, tears in her eyes. "There is too much pain here. It is a place of light, but I must find life, find out what I need to do. I'm sure I have a purpose somewhere." She sat back up and embraced him; he did the same for her, finally giving up. He did care for her, and he decided—in spite of whatever Aluekrai had said—it would be in her best interests to let her go.

"Look," she whispered, leaning back. She smiled at him, relishing in the gleam of his crystal eyes one last time. "You let go of the Ring, Frodo. You did it."

Frodo grinned back at her slightly.

"Don't look so sorrowful, love," she said softly. She stood and moved towards the balcony. "When we are both healed, I shall return. The dragon promised you happiness." She stared out into Valinor. "Have hope, Frodo Baggins. My Ringbearer." With that she saluted him and was gone, spreading her wings, now feathered in white.

Frodo raced to the balcony to see her off. Tears glistened against his cheeks. In that moment she was not his horror or his doom, but his path to a new life, his gateway into Valinor and now into the happiness of the future.

"Farewell, Therra." Sev had been called that name once; he tasted salt on his lips.


	22. You And I Will Meet Again

**Diem Kieu: This one should help. I think. *sigh* Somehow I was never in the mood for the resolution of this story . . . but it had to happen, and I had intended it always to be this way. :)  
Oh, absolutely. Except that now he's teaching sirens how to fish . . . XP  
Yeah. O.o Although I've always liked the candy/fantasy aspect of Halloween better than the scary one; I don't like scary things, but I like angsty things.**

Despite Delamarth's message of hope to him, Frodo could not bring himself to believe it. The blood of her cut still lingered on his blanket—the blood of Sev's dying wounds still remained on the sack she'd given him. His world spun with red. He didn't dare eat; he felt sick, and a little bit useless.

He sometimes felt like giving up, but there was nothing left to give up on save life itself. And whenever he felt tempted just to lie in bed and let himself waste away, he remembered Aluekrai's blessing, and Delamarth's promise to return. There had to be a reason he was still here, for healing or for the benefit of another.

Frodo admitted no visitors, and even when he did he spoke little to them. Gandalf came, and so did Elrond from time to time, attempting to give him food, comfort, anything he needed. He told them what he'd told Sam: "You can't help me. Not this time." He couldn't seem to shake his heartache, no matter how often he looked—in vain, he understood every time—out the window and tried to find Sev flitting amongst the clouds, or Delamarth headed for his balcony. He only considered the latter for the former being impossible; the dragons had checked the boulders below the water's surface, and there was no sign of Sev's body.

He gave up on Delamarth after only a few weeks. She was right; even if she did return, Sev would always matter more.

Gandalf said there was a stranger at the door that wanted to see him, privately, one day. Frodo asked if it was Delamarth, and Gandalf paused. "I do not know, Frodo. I would believe so, for it is halfling."

Frodo sighed and stood weakly from his position on his bed; from lack of food over the past few days, he trembled in place. He almost felt better for wasting away physically as he did mentally. "Gandalf, I thank you, but I wish for no visitors at present. I will meet with her tomorrow, or perhaps when I feel better, whenever that might be."

The wizard turned away. Frodo sank back onto his bed, breathing a shaky sigh, when he heard feet scraping against the floor outside.

Frodo turned suddenly as Gandalf burst through the door, his lungs heaving.

"The visitor says it must see you, Frodo," he managed. He was bracing his arm against something, something outside. Frodo peered past him, only to see a little cloaked figure shoving against Gandalf. Frodo rationalized—wingless as it was—it had to be another halfling from Valinor, perhaps one that had the answer to Frodo's desire to find happiness once again.

But Frodo did not feel ready yet. He sat back on the bed.

"My apologies," Frodo said calmly, "but I cannot. Please; return tomorrow. I'm certain I shall be well enough to tend to you then."

The little stranger raced under Gandalf's arm, barreling into the room. Gandalf moved to apprehend it.

Frodo stood, peering at the halfling's face. The stranger lowered its eyes. Frodo motioned for Gandalf to leave, thanking him. The wizard hesitantly backed out, shutting the door behind him.

Frodo cocked his head and sat on his bed.

"Who are you?" he asked softly, "and what was so urgent?"

The stranger paused. Its voice settled with sorrow. "I just had to see you."

Frodo reached forward to pull back the halfling's hood, but it shrank away.

"I am scarred; I do not wish to frighten you," it rasped apologetically. Frodo shook his head; he couldn't tell if the halfling was male or female, especially not with that thick cloak wrapped around it. The cloak draped around the feet of the creature, making it impossible to tell if it was hobbit or simply a man's runt.

Frodo paused. "Won't you then tell me who you are?"

The stranger hemmed and hawed, its voice trembling. "Perhaps tomorrow," it said quickly, turning for the door. "You are not well, and as you have said perhaps it would be better tomorrow."

Frodo reached forward and grabbed the creature's shoulder, and it flinched with a slight gasp.

"I'm sorry," he said slowly, but then stepped in front of the creature and blocked the door. "I promise, you can tell me who you are. Now that you are here, you've piqued my curiosity," he admitted.

The halfling shivered.

Frodo reached down. "I will not fear your scars; I have had a plethora of my own. Please, do not be afraid." He softly extended his fingers to pull back the hood once again, and the halfling jolted when Frodo's fingers tenderly brushed its skin. It scrambled against the bed, breathing hard. Frodo caught a glimpse of nothing more than a pale neck . . . and a curl—a crimson curl—hiding amongst the black fabric.

His eyes widened, and tears pricked. "Oh, Sev," he managed, suddenly reminded of her. He turned away, staring at the ground.

The stranger stretched out her arm, then concealed it. Another scar covered her arm as well, from the harsh rock that surrounded her when she escaped the sea.

"I'm sorry; I just didn't want to frighten you," she rasped gently. Frodo's head shot up, and he spun around. He leaped forward and threw back the stranger's hood, met by a pale, almost frighteningly familiar face framed by crimson hair. Her eyes were rimmed with purple, and she had long scrapes along her cheeks, nose and forehead, and her lips were deathly pale.

But it was Sev.

Frodo didn't even think to gawk or ask how in the name of the Valar she had survived before he squeezed her close and crushed his lips against hers with a loud, disbelieving moan. Sev stiffened in his grasp, partially for the way he kissed her and partially for how his arms squeezed her shoulders against her healing heart.

She pulled away from him, only to find tears racing down his face. He cupped her neck, her face, ran his fingers through her hair. He held her close again, kissing her eyes, her ears, her cheeks, her forehead, her nose, her lips, anything he could. Her name escaped his mouth as he kissed her, rubbed his cheek against hers.

"Sev . . . Sev . . . oh, Sev . . ." He couldn't have her enough, didn't need to ask how she'd survived, but suddenly the weight on his heart was replaced by a tingle, a tingle of shocked hope. Even if this was just a specter or a dream, it felt so real he wanted and needed it.

That tingle overtook Sev as well. She laughed slightly, responding to his touch. His head slacked with the sudden overflow of realization, and then he kissed her again. She brushed her lips against his cheek to absorb his tears.

"I'm alive, I promise," she whispered when he finished, embracing her. He lifted her off the ground, then set her down and threw her cloak aside. She was in a simple dress of dark brown, sleeves cut at the upper arms to show that she no longer had the muscular mass she once did. Frodo couldn't have cared less about that, but he then realized that, despite the scars all over her—she was _alive_.

He took a long time to finish expressing himself, and she actually grew a little impatient with it for a moment, then let it continue. He couldn't let her go, couldn't realize for himself that she was before him. She'd hidden her draconic features, but he insisted she bring them out. She did so, and he stroked her leathery wings disbelievingly.

Finally Frodo set her down on the bed, his arms surrounding her as he asked how she'd lived.

"You bled to death," he said wonderingly. "The dragons . . . they told me . . ."

Sev chuckled slightly; her voice still rasped, and he considered whether it was healthy for her to talk at all. "I may be partially hobbit, Frodo, but I still have some qualities of a dragon. The source of a dragon's life is not his heart, nor is it his head; it is his gizzard, his organ that creates his living fire and channels all functions of the body, or so the dragons told me when I found them." She rubbed her stomach. "My gizzard was completely intact, although truly I was confused at first. I swam out to find you, after I woke up. I saw water dragons looking for me, but I had to come see you first. I nearly bled the rest of the way out in the water, but luckily there was this gawking clot right here." She pointed to her heart, and Frodo shuddered.

"One of them found me and took me to my parents." She swallowed and bit her lip. "They told me what you did, that you told them what happened. They said I could become a dragon if I wanted."

Frodo exhaled slowly; that was her decision, and he'd decided long ago to let her make it.

"I would be a noble," she said, her eyes drifting to the ceiling. "The power I could have wielded; I would have been a real creature." She sighed and glanced up at him. "But that's not what I wanted. I wanted ;you, Frodo." She smiled as she surveyed his eyes; they were so bright and full, happy again if not desperate with shock at this particular moment. She cupped his cheek, and he nuzzled her hand, kissing it gently. Then he paused.

"You left them?" His heart sank. "What about Nithkerekk?"

She shrugged, a slight grin rising to her face. "Sometimes you have to give things up, especially in love, and that's what I did, although from what I've seen I didn't give up much." Frodo chuckled at this, and she continued. "Nithkerekk is betrothed to another, and although he offered to take me back I told him I would not have him. He did threaten to take it to a legal case, but the majority of the legal system is female: they agreed with me most emphatically." She sighed and wrapped her wings around him. "I gave you my first dragon's blessing; you're not going anywhere without me."

Frodo inhaled powerfully, then cupped her face and warmly kissed her again. Sev's eyes sank shut as his fingers tangled in her hair, and he eased away. He laid his forehead down against hers.

"I don't want to," he murmured. "Marry me, Sev; please?"

She pecked his lips. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

 **So that was intended to surprise you . . . but if you guys are anything like my very analytical family you would have uncannily guessed that she was alive either 1. right after she got stabbed or 2. when a halfling visitor asked to see him (I guess they just love to guess things or something).  
I hope that was a happy surprise for some of you. XD And it took me a while to get that to work; killing and restoring a character without deus ex machina is a tricky business. Oh, well.**


	23. Shaakareihn Mokolai

**Diem Kieu: Absolutely! :D I'm looking forward to every update. X)**

 **A/N: Mostly the rest of these chapters are pure fluff. And there is resolution for Delamarth, I promise. :) It may disturb the heck out of some of you, though.**

Later that night Frodo waited on his balcony for Delamarth. They'd taken Sev away to help her heal, but she slipped to him the location of her room in case he wanted to visit her in the morning. She told him she wanted no other kind of healing, really, than to see him.

The moonshine didn't cover much; it was a crescent. Frodo thought it was perfectly beautiful, but he knew Sev would be sarcastically disappointed by the lack of light. Suddenly the white strip flicked in and out of sight, and a black shape appeared on the balcony. Frodo glanced up at her, smiling more sincerely than when she'd last seen him.

"I felt your heart race," Delamarth said quietly, stepping down from the balcony. Frodo's eyebrow arched until she pointed to the cuff at his neck. He rubbed his fingertip across it self-consciously. "What is it?"

Frodo smiled and embraced her. "Sev is alive," he whispered.

Delamarth paused before slowly embracing him as well; she didn't remotely know how to process that. She'd been considering Frodo as she was gone, wondering to herself if she really ought to marry him, if it would make him happy . . . but now she knew.

She pulled away, congratulating him softly before she crossed her arms over the balcony. He cocked his head.

"Delamarth?"

He put his arm around her shoulders. She shook her head, glancing at the ground far below.

"I found no other creatures on this island save the dragons," she said. She bit her lip. "I do truly belong nowhere."

"Neither did Sev," Frodo pointed out. "There is hope for you yet."

Delamarth laughed harshly. "I didn't think you would ever say that about the One Ring."

"But you aren't the Ring anymore." Then he straightened. "And you aren't Del or Amarth anymore, either." He squeezed her close and kissed her cheek gently. She smiled against his tender lips; even if he didn't love her like he did Sev, he still cared about her well-being. "I think you are Therra."

She cocked her head. "What does that mean?"

Frodo shrugged. "I don't know. My mother chose that name for a friend, a good friend, and I think you should have a name like that."

"Thank you, but I'm rather fond of the name Delamarth; it was my first." She smiled sadly, then glanced over the balcony. "I would ask to stay with you, here, but there's Sevanaan to be concerned about, and you're marrying her." She sighed. "I almost thought I would accept you, while I was gone. I thought about it long and hard. I don't have any future outside of here, and I'm unsure what to do."

Frodo stepped away, perplexed. "I truthfully don't know," he said quietly. Then he glanced up. "Stay out here, on my balcony, for the night. I'll talk to Sev in the morning, find out if she's accepting of letting you stay." He threw off her protest. "And when we are married, I'm certain we can find you a part here."

Delamarth paused, calculating, and she realized she didn't have much of a choice beyond roaming the rest of her life with nothing but thoughts of Frodo that never resolved. She nodded assertively, and Frodo slipped into the shadows to sleep.

She sighed shakily and laid down on the balcony. Frodo brought her pillows and a blanket, then stroked her hair softly before retreating.

By the time Delamarth woke up the next morning, Frodo was already out the door and down the hall, looking for Sev. He didn't wish to awaken any of the elves; they would likely turn him out. He found Sev in the room where Bilbo had died. She sat up in bed, staring at the blankets.

"It happened here, didn't it?" she murmured.

Frodo paused. "What?"

Sev patted the bed, feeling it reverently. "The dragons taught me everything they knew about healing, apparently a privilege reserved for warriors and royalty." She snickered. "Thanks for letting me slip in there; it was very helpful. But I feel the remnants of a halted echo here . . . of an aged, adventuring heartbeat." Sev bit her lip, and her eyes sank shut. "It must have hurt."

Frodo crept forward, wrapping his hand around hers. She sighed and sat back, smiling up at him.

"You came quickly," she said.

He leaned forward—her cheek rose to meet his. "Of course I did," he whispered. "The moment you're better, we're making you a Baggins." Sev chuckled lightly as he kissed her cheek, then brushed his lips softly against hers; when she kissed him back he let out a gentle sigh, cupping her shoulders close to him. He eased away slowly, then kissed her again, more persistently this time. Then he paused. "Sev, there is something I want to tell you."

Sev cocked her head and scooted over. He sat down by her side, but that was short-lived. He turned around and sat at the head of the bed, bringing her back to his chest. He wrapped his arms around her waist and held her as he spoke. "I had a visitor last night."

Her eyebrow shot straight up. "That doesn't sound odd at all . . ." Her voice dripped with sarcasm.

"Sev, it was Delamarth."

Sev stiffened, gripping the blanket. Her claws sprouted, and Frodo nearly got smacked in the face as her wings wriggled out of her body.

"Sev! Sev!" She calmed, her breath deliberate and terrified. She turned back to him, and he squeezed her close to keep her from worrying. "Sev, I'm all right," he promised. "In fact, Delamarth has changed. She's no longer a siren, or a Ring."

A long pause filled the air. Sev considered it all, felt the pangs of every injury she'd ever sustained from that creature. She realized after a bitter moment that Frodo had gone through a great deal more, that Delamarth had scarred him in ways Sev never had experienced from her hand. And if he could forgive her, accept that she had changed, Sev was certain she could do the same. She breathed hard in place for a few minutes, clawing beyond her shock for Frodo's sake. Had she been alone in the ordeal she might have flown away and never come back.

"All right," she said slowly. "Where is she, then?"

Frodo stood and offered a hand up. Sev accepted it, and he walked her out of the room and down the hall back to his own room. Sev glared at the door.

"She stayed in there all night?"

Frodo shook his head, actually stifling a chuckle at her deadly stare. He didn't know Sev could be so jealous. "No; she's out on my balcony." He opened the door and led Sev inside. The dragon-girl sucked in a breath when she saw Delamarth, the one whose eyes had been so full of hatred when she impaled Sev's heart with a piece of lightning. Sev inhaled and exhaled slowly, stepping forward. Frodo tried to follow, but Sev held up a hand. She slowly opened the balcony doors and walked out into the light.

Delamarth shot upright and stood. Sev looked nothing short of remorseful, feeling somewhat guilty for how she felt about Delamarth.

"Sevanaan, I'm so—," Delamarth started, but Sev held up a hand.

"Do not apologize to me," she said. "I'm sure you've already apologized to Frodo; he is the only one truly hurt by this whole ordeal."

Delamarth glared, and Frodo winced from within. He approached the balcony, but Sev and Delamarth nigh simultaneously reached for the doors, slammed them, and locked them. Frodo protested, certain they would kill each other if left alone.

But Sev knew she had to get over this.

"Well, you don't seem too pleased for me being here," Delamarth hissed. Sev's hackles raised, and her wings flared. Frodo turned and paced; he didn't think Sev would have taken such a move to be out there alone with Delamarth.

Sev let her glare harden. "I'm trying to figure that out." Then she breathed shakily and sat down, reigning in her desire to fight back. Delamarth backed away from her, but did not sit. "I am aware that you have visited Frodo, and he says you have changed." Sev glanced up, staring into those golden eyes. Her voice softened when she saw the difference in them; the Ring of Power was no more, from lava to the island of Amarth to here. "I suppose I believe him."

Delamarth's gaze settled. "Then I could stay? You would let me be here, even after you marry him?"

She paused. "He said nothing about that." But before Delamarth could defend herself, Sev held up a hand again. "Yes. If you can manage to do so, I have no qualms." She sighed heavily. "I do not mind the hurt you have done to me as much as that you have inflicted on Frodo, and he seems actually rather happy to have you here."

Delamarth breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you."

Sev knew, despite this momet of quiet, that they had a long road ahead of them before either of them would be completely settled with each other.

Delamarth understood that Frodo wouldn't have been nearly as excited if he were planning the wedding for her. She actually found Sev's company much more tolerable in that time; Frodo wouldn't quit looking at the dragon-girl, but she seemed relatively level-headed about the whole ordeal, as though it frightened her and she didn't want to admit it; whenever Delamarth sought quiet or rest from Frodo's hectic response to this whole marriage business, she would talk to Sev.

The elves complied rather quickly; Sev put in a request for arrangements to be sped through, once she learned that Frodo had promised Bilbo to name their first child after him. The concept of a family made Sev a little nervous, but she convinced herself to accept it; despite that she didn't bring it up with him often, especially not when Delamarth was around.

Delamarth wasn't there for the wedding itself in knowing it would hurt too much, but the Dragon Emperor arrived to officiate. Aluekrai and Malachthar, as well as the Empress, came to congratulate Frodo and their Chaaempier. The Empress basically expressed that she "told him so," regarding that Chaaempier would find happiness as well. She said she had forseen Frodo doubting her as well. Malachthar snorted when he saw Frodo, and the Ringbearer just bowed to him gently. Nithkerekk stood in the back of the line and said nothing, flicking his gaze to Frodo. His mate, a pearl, off-white dragon by the name of Elskalaanth, congratulated Frodo.

They were in line outside, and the Emperor stood waiting for Frodo beneath the burial mountain. Elves and dragons outlined an aisle of sorts from Frodo to the dragon as the hobbit walked along uncertainly, feeling only a little better when he finally stood in the shadow of the mountain. Aluekrai stood behind him, and nodded softly to him as though to assure him that this wouldn't be hard.

Sev didn't bring her wings. Her dress fit well, but Frodo didn't mind it so much as he did simply seeing her there, walking towards him. His ears numbed to the triumphant screeches of the dragons surrounding him. They swarmed her for a moment, and the elves shifted with discomfort at the display. Dragons dotted her with powerful nuzzles as she walked that nearly threw her over. She licked their scales in response, and they each backed away with their confirmation from her that they were accepted always into her home.

Frodo didn't see her up close until her parents finished with her, and then she approached him. He took her in for a moment, from her large hobbit feet to her red curls. He kissed her cheek and squeezed her close to him.

"It's a good thing Smeagol isn't here," he whispered. "You look amazing."

Sev smiled, blushing deeply, as the Emperor officiated, in the hobbit tradition, the Elvish tradition, and the Draconic. He concluded with the last mentioned, but he had omitted the opportunity to kiss the bride up until then. Sev had specifically requested that, although it would have pleased the Emperor greatly to watch. Frodo waited patiently, absorbing every admonition to care for her as though she were an extension of himself. This came in the Draconic vows; they took the physical connection deeply seriously, and he knew she would as well.

The Emperor bowed to them, and Sev took that as her cue. She cupped Frodo's cheek and leaned up towards him, easing her warm lips softly against his. Frodo's heart raced as he embraced her. She pulled away just slightly to whisper with the Emperor's exclamation.

"Shaakareihn mokolai!" he exclaimed, and the entire crowd repeated it to him. Frodo pecked Sev's lips again, then held her close.

"What did he say?" Frodo asked her later, when the festivities had all died down and they were alone, swaying on their feet in the dim light of Frodo's room.

Sev laid her head on his chest; the ache was replaced with powerful, proud beating of a beautiful heart, the heart of the one she'd tied herself to on the day he was born. She remembered every moment with him, every laugh and every kiss, every touch and every sorrow, every epiphany she had whenever she realized that she loved him.

"Shaakareihn mokolai," she whispered. She reached up, and her lips brushed his ear. "It is a sacred phrase; it has no exact translation into the common tongue, but it approximately means, 'Two are now one; never to be severed, never to be divided, blessed by desire, bound by love,' something like that." Then she snickered, backing away from him. She locked her arms around his neck. "In any simpler term, it just means kissing."

And so they did.


	24. Hatch

**Diem Kieu: Right on! I look forward to it. ;)**

Four days later she'd been walking on the beach alone when she could feel the first tremors of life deep within her body. She bit her lip excitedly; dragons were faster at approaching this process than humans, constantly capable of giving birth. She raced back up to the ziggurat to tell Frodo; the elves would not be able to tell until the cells actually began to form, but Sev knew—she could tell better than any.

Frodo asked her excitedly if it was a boy, but she shook her head.

"I have no idea," she admitted. "I haven't been pregnant long enough."

However, she was able to tell him three months later. She felt the stirrings of a little boy, she insisted. She could see him in her mind's eye: he wasn't even a creature yet, but she felt him. She knew.

As she grew, Frodo became worried. He didn't know how she would handle the change; the elves warned that it was a tricky process for hobbits and humans, but Sev could function perfectly well, even around her swelling stomach. She walked easily, ate easily, worked easily, slept easily. When it came time for the birth, she didn't break a sweat in any sense of the word. Frodo gripped her hand, more nervous than she was. She reached up and patted his shoulder.

"Frodo, it's all right," she said calmly. She didn't even sound exhausted, much less anxious or pained. "I don't hurt, but I'll let you know when I do."

The Elvish midwives told her to push, and she did. She tried to push again, but they frantically stopped her. She glanced up, one eyebrow arched. "That was it?"

Indeed it was. Little Bilbo was no struggle, and neither was his little sister Primula. Frodo doted on them, and Sev flew them about with all the energy of her heart. She loved them very much; little Bilbo had bright red curls and crystal eyes, but he ate so much Sev didn't think he would inherit the slightly smaller weight capacity of his parents.

And frankly she didn't mind.

Primula was rather unusually scrawny, but unlike either Frodo or Sev she had bright blonde curls, an inheritance from Frodo's mother. Her eyes were rich brown, sweet and large. Sev coddled her a great deal, but the girl had an independent spirit, and often wriggled away from her mother before Sev could hold her a sufficient amount of time.

The third pregnancy they expected to be the same way . . . but from the moment Sev felt stirrings within her heart sank. She approached Frodo, feeling heavy and sick. She collapsed in his arms, and she remained on his bed for weeks. She tossed and moaned, thrashing occasionally like an animal with a broken leg. She felt more like she had a thudding in her gut, like there were rocks inside sliding around and banging against her, threatening to crush her gizzard and spine.

Frodo sat by her bed constantly; Primula often asked assertively what was wrong with Mum, while Bilbo sat in the corner with jam and icing all over his fingers and face. Frodo usually sighed and lifted the squirming, curious Primula onto his lap.

"I don't know, dear one," he whispered worriedly. He surveyed his ill wife, who clenched the sheets with what had become claws before her third pregnancy began. Her wings fluttered behind her, drenched in sweat.

One morning Frodo woke up and reached for Sev to hold her and tell her it this would end soon, only to find that she was not there. The sheets were tangled on her side of the bed. He scrambled to his feet; Primula and Bilbo were both asleep at the foot of the bed, right where they should be in their smaller mattresses. Frodo frantically planted a kiss on each of their heads before racing out the door.

The ziggurat had not yet awakened; the sun had just come up, but Frodo supposed having his wife missing at night had roused him. He ran outside, hissing her name.

"Sev!" Finally he permitted a shout. "Sev, where are you?!"

Then he heard a groan off in the forest somewhere, and he raced to find her. Finally he found her, shuffling along the ground, again, like a broken animal. She cried out and itched against the ground, rolling over once or twice. She moaned with pain, straining her limbs. She grasped at her stomach, and Frodo feared she would hurt herself. He raced forward, gripping her shoulders. She trembled; her face glistened with perspiration, and her eyes flickered with exhaustion.

"Frodo . . ." she managed. "I must do this alone."

Frodo cupped her face. "It's not safe for you out here. How did you get here?"

She gasped and staggered against the ground. "I flew off the balcony," she blurted, her eyes still flickering as though she didn't quite recognize him. "Please don't hurt me."

"Sev, I would never hurt you," Frodo insisted; she hadn't her senses at the moment. He laid a hand over her stomach, and she gripped it with vicelike fingers. Frodo sucked in a breath and waited for her to release. He backed her up against a tree, rubbing her swollen stomach. He opened his mouth to speak . . . and realized her stomach had huge lumps in it.

A loud thump sounded from behind him, and Frodo whipped around. Aluekrai stood there, shaking her head.

"I told you she would lay four eggs a year, Anaska-tei," Aluekrai said. She sounded amused.

Frodo's eyes doubled. "Eggs?!" The thought hadn't even crossed his mind since Bilbo was born, much less only a few months prior to that. He cupped Sev's cheek, but she threw his hand back down to her stomach. He kept rubbing. "Aluekrai, what can we do?" he asked urgently.

Aluekrai stepped forward, staring down with a mother's sympathy at the writhing creature on the ground. "If she had hobbit children they were doubtlessly simple. She has strength, and dragons were not built to give birth to mortals." She glanced at Frodo. "This will simply be like what most mortal women go through." She picked Sev up, who squirmed in place when Frodo's soothing touch left her. She cried out his name blindly, scrambling in her mother's grip.

Frodo stood. "Sev!"

Her mother shook her head. "She must have them alone. I'll take her far away, but she will be back in a few days." Aluekrai nuzzled Frodo's hair as Sev's moans and cries carried through the woods. "Don't worry; she'll be all right. She must face it alone."

Frodo stared after Aluekrai as she lifted her daughter and eggs into the sky, far away.

Frodo had Bilbo and Primula to attend to; he couldn't simply wait and stare out the window forever, not this time. He spent as much time with them as possible, but Primula was a free little spirit and managed to avoid deep, well, anything, much less bonding. Delamarth came back, and she hit it off with Frodo's little girl immediately. She also took a liking to Bilbo, who rather was frightened of her.

"Like father like son," Delamarth drawled sarcastically while Primula played with her feathers.

Frodo smiled, removing a forgotten pastry from Bilbo's slackened grasp. The little boy stared, wide-eyed, at Delamarth. His strong little heartbeat rocked him in Frodo's grasp, escalated by some terror he felt at Delamarth's presence.

"He even has your eyes," Delamarth snorted. "And Sevanaan's hair. He got the best of both."

Frodo could see Sev's response, blushing perhaps at Delamarth's statement and muttering that she would have loved to see little Bilbo with Frodo's curls, then kiss his cheek to hide her blush from him. He sighed, slouching slightly as Bilbo occupied himself a loose thread on his vest.

Delamarth's gaze softened. "You miss her?"

Frodo nodded.

"Where is she?"

Frodo inhaled and exhaled deeply. "Laying eggs."

Delamarth blinked, then cocked her head. "She's what?"

A bang sounded at the balcony window, and Frodo stiffened. Delamarth set Primula aside to grab the door. When it opened, Sev stood, exhausted but triumphant. She had two huge eggs balanced in her arms, and Aluekrai appeared behind her with the other two tucked in her claws.

"Hello!" Sev said, tiredly attempting to grin. "These aren't getting any smaller; could I get a little help from the responsible father, please?"

Frodo set Bilbo aside the moment he got over his disbelief and moved to help her, but Delamarth shook her head.

"Sevanaan, you must do it right." Aluekrai snorted at the sound of Sev's full name, and Delamarth soundly ignored her, taking the eggs from Sev and setting them down on the bed. They swelled quickly in place. "Kiss first, hatch later," Delamarth said. "If I were married to somebody like Frodo, that's how I'd do it." Her gaze flickered to little Bilbo, and she winked. He scrambled back, his huge eyes wide with uncertainty.

Frodo didn't hesitate to drag Sev into his arms after that statement. He kissed her softly, and got a little bit lost. Sev inhaled slowly as her arms and wings surrounded his shoulders, tightening around them. Delamarth skirted them and accepted the other two eggs from a hesitant Aluekrai, while Primula made choking noises from within the room.

Bilbo's only comment was, "Papa, you can't eat Mum! Mum doesn't taste good; I licked her once."

Sev smiled against Frodo's lips, and he broke it off briefly to let her chuckle. Then he was right back to kissing. At this point it was amusing for him to catch a reaction from his children—and Sev's response was admittedly addictive, tired as he felt she was.

Primula fired back, "He's not eating her; he's kissing her!" More choking sounds ensued. "And it's gross!"

Delamarth laughed outright, nudging the distracted Frodo on her way inside with the other two eggs. "She's right, Frodo; that's disgusting. Quit that."

Frodo broke away from Sev, laughing softly. Sev joined him, and soon both trembled with slightly caged chuckles.

Delamarth clapped her hands together once. "So, Sevanaan," she said, regarding the eggs, "when are we going to eat?"

Frodo gawked at her, mortified, but Sev laughed. Bilbo perked up at Delamarth's comment, then glanced, confused, at his father's horrified expression. Sev left Frodo and clapped Delamarth's shoulder, much to his surprise.

"Maybe I could get used to you," she said with a slight chuckle. Her eyelids drooped with exhaustion, and she leaned on Delamarth.

Delamarth paused, assessing Frodo's glare. "I don't think your husband found that as entertaining as you did."

Sev sighed. "Well, I'm only laughing because I had them in my stomach, and I was ready to get them out. Now you want to put them back in, and you can have them right there if you wish," she said, poking at Delamarth's waist.

"No thank you, I'm fine without them," Delamarth insisted. She softly traced her finger over the hardening shells. "They're still warm."

Sev nodded. "I laid them an hour ago." Each was now half as long as Frodo was tall; she tsked. "I have to keep them warm for a few months, and that's not going to be easy. Most dragons are big enough to do this."

Delamarth ruffled Sev's hair. "Good luck, misfit."

Frodo found Sev a few days later out in the forest, exposing her eggs to the sunshine. She laid on them two at a time with all the spare time she had, spreading her body across them. She whispered to them, sang to them, spoke to them in Dragonese and the common tongue.

She saw him watching her and blushed.

"Come," she whispered. "Do you want to tell them something?"

Frodo paused. "What do you mean?"

"They absorb everything. Come, say something."

Frodo did so, but then he asked if he could help. Sev laughed and told him he could heat the other eggs for her. He laid down on the other two, relishing in the light of the sun, the feel of his children beneath him, and the presence of his wife.

She was trapped then; he caught her hand and kissed it lazily from time to time as they talked. Admittedly those were the days Sev remembered most as time went on. Frodo sang with her, that song she would sing when he first arrived at Valinor.

Those eggs hatched after a few short months of constant warming; Frodo and Sev even slept on the eggs, for the nights were too chilly. Maskei, Throlos, Secroen, and Timanaa, three boys and a little girl, all with wings, horns, claws, smiling hobbit faces, fiery gizzards, and mischievous attitudes. They were little terrors, Delamarth insisted. She often avoided them for fear of being injured.

"Maskei for cunning, Throlos for curiosity, Timanaa for ostensible naivety, and Secroen for an adventurous spirit," Sev reminded her as the little ones chased each other around on the beach, spitting fireballs and attempting clumsily to leap over each other with help from wet, unready wings. "They're meant to be terrors."


	25. Here, At Last, On the Shores of the Sea

**Diem Kieu: *GASP* Swear words! I remembered that, that it showed up in the email and not the list of reviews! O.o Now I feel dense. XD Not that I haven't been dropping the ball all over the place for the past few weeks. :P Or the past few years, give or take.  
So here's my response to the last one: ****Well . . . yeah. XD I do have resolution for that though, I promise. But it was awkward. They probably avoided each other like heck for a while.  
Mmmm . . . dang it, I have mental problems. O.o And I think this story especially goes to show that.  
Oh, absolutely! Thanks for suggesting it! When I do revisions I'll keep that in mind, because all these are DEFINITELY going through major edits when I have time.  
** **XD Perhaps cute, but definitely troublesome. And they may be Frodo's kids, but they're Sev's too, so they look wonky. Trouble ahead? XD To an extent. Climax is already gone, but I guess there's-well, less trouble, and more a tad bit of a twist? Hopefully?  
DFTYA! Hope to hear from you soon! :)**

Even as Delamarth moved on and the children grew, Frodo and Sev remained the same. Their lifespan functioned impeccably. They saw their children come and go, find other halflings all the way from the Shire to marry. Sev gave birth to eggs periodically, but mostly to little hobbits. Soon there were dozens racing around the shores, from Frodo and Sev directly or from their posterity. In the case of their Bilbo, however, after a fearful courtship he shakily asked Delamarth to marry him. Delamarth never really minded generation gaps, and accepted, teasing him that she only loved him for his eyes. It was a few years after that when Frodo saw Bilbo sitting against a tree, kissing Delamarth as their little son raced around: it reminded Frodo of his dream, and he realized what it had meant all along.

Frodo spoke with her about it, the night before her wedding to his son. He loved his little Bilbo (who was actually taller than Frodo), and didn't want him marrying Delamarth just because he'd been smitten with her since he was two years old.

"Frodo, he's basically an affectionate you; of course I love him," she said, poking his shoulder. She lifted a finger to the niche in his neckband for a chain and spun the circlet; Frodo jolted at the twanging in his neck. She cackled, but then her voice settled, lifting her fingertips to her mouth. "Your son is . . . amazing."

Now amused, Frodo lfited an eyebrow and gestured for her to continue.

"It's not strange for me to think of him as _your_ son, as Sevanaan suggested it might. In fact—it makes sense to me. He's just so much like you. But _kissing_ him . . ." Her eyes rolled back, and it took all of Frodo's energy not to laugh. "No wonder you like that misfit so much; he probably got his lips from her. They're so warm. It must be a dragon thing."

Frodo clapped her shoulder, fairly sure he knew where she would go with this. "I've heard what I need to hear," he said. "He's all yours."

One day Sev spotted a ship on the horizon. Ships were not common in Valinor anymore, and she dragged Frodo to come and see.

Sev pulled the boat to shore. Inside was Delamarth, and she held the hand of an elderly, familiar hobbit. He was blind now, and she led him softly down onto the sand. She smiled at Frodo as she directed the hobbit up the shore. Bilbo II followed, bracing his hand against his wife's shoulders.

Frodo smiled broadly and leaped forward. "Sam!" He gently caught his friend in his arms, and Sam scrambled to embrace Frodo as well.

"Mr. Frodo!" Sam's voice trembled with age and excitement. "Mr. Frodo, you're well-preserved," he admitted; he sounded just a little bit confused. He'd expected Frodo at least to have aged a little bit.

Frodo laughed. "Indeed I am, Samwise Gamgee." He squeezed his friend close. As they caught up on what the other had been to for a small time, Frodo brought him gently up the shore to Sev. Sev gasped slightly and cupped her stepbrother's face.

Sam frowned, his jaw quivering. "Who is this?"

Sev smiled, tears dripping down her cheeks. "Sam, it's your sister. It's Sev."

Frodo stepped back and allowed them to reunite. He moved to Delamarth and squeezed her close.

"Thank you," he whispered. "Thank you."

Delamarth chuckled, but tears sprang to her eyes as well. She choked on her words despite her efforts when she remembered that year so long ago, the last time she had seen Sam and the heartwarming friendship between them. "Well, I figured I'd better bring him." She caught the tears brimming at her eyelids. "It was only a matter of time before I did something nice for you, right?"

Frodo laughed and brought her to reunite with him and Sam. They never told Sam about Delamarth; they gathered Sam would be a little less prone to letting it go. Frodo gathered his family to meet Sam, for they all had heard stories.

Sam soon felt ready to pass away, however. He told Frodo he missed his dear Rosie, his children, and he wanted to be with them. He gripped his master's hand in the moments they were alone, the moments before he knew he would leave his mortal body.

"Mr. Frodo," he managed, "I missed you every day. There wasn't a moment I didn't remember you; I told tales about you, honest I did! I prayed you were all right, and it seems you've done well for yourself, and my sister."

Frodo nodded, smiling softly. He didn't want to let go of his dear Sam. "I remembered you as well, my Sam." He rubbed his friend's shoulder. "Rest in peace, greatest of friends, for you have done more than you will ever know, and it is time for you to return to Rosie."

Sam smiled weakly. "I love you, Mr. Frodo. There and back again."

Frodo couldn't hold back the tears as Sam's hazel eyes slipped closed for the final time. He kissed his friend's forehead softly.

"I love you too, Sam."

He became a bronze crystal. Sev and Frodo were there for the burial, no one else. Tears raced down Frodo's face, but Sev did not brush them away. She cupped him close with her wings.

"Why do you weep?" She emphasized it poetically, almost humorously, to let him know she understood. Then she kissed his cheek. "We shall all meet again."

Frodo grinned through his tears, then sighed shakily. "Shall we ever?"

Sev nudged him, but then grew solemn and the claw on her wing joint brushed Frodo's cheek. "Dragons don't live forever, even if they do live for a long time. But we are one, one beyond that." She wrapped her arms around him and sang again, the song she sang to all her eggs before they were hatched, all of her children as they slept, to herself in lonely and painful moments, but most importantly to the love of her life every time he felt the pangs of sorrow or the ecstasy of family.

He sang it with her again. "Across the sea a pale moon rises; the ships had come to carry us home. And all will turn to silver glass; a light on the water, grey ships pass into the West."

"Never divided again, my Chaaempier."

Sev's brow furrowed. " _Your_ Chaaempier? You are missing no heirs, and I'm not one of them, mind. I gave you your heirs."

"Of course you did." Frodo sighed, squeezing her shoulders. "It seems like an eternity ago."

"What? Having Bilbo?"

Frodo shook his head, then smiled. "No; Delamarth. I never thought I would recover, and I never could have thought my healing would be like this." His eyes widened. "Sev, my son is married to Delamarth."

Sev resisted a chuckle. "Like father like son, Frodo; you couldn't do it, and he was smitten with her from the start. And I think she fell in love with his eyes almost faster than she did yours."

"It was a lot to miss. I'm glad she's there for him." He eased an inhale, cupping Sev's cheek. Her eyelids flickered as his fingers strayed down her neck, and his eyes roamed her face longingly. "And I'm glad you're here for me."

Sev wrapped her wings around him and nestled against his chest; the echoes of her blessing from decades ago rang in his heart, and when his lips possessively trapped hers, the passion and sentiment of love long aged and cured, fought for, lost, and won traveled right with it, echoing between them.

 **External of the bonus chapter, Frodo, My Precious has thus ended! A huge thank you to Diem Kieu for following and reviewing this story; love ya! X)  
Also a huge thank you to Gracie Miserables, FriendlyNeighborhoodFangirl, and Snowdevil The Awesome for favoriting (that's not a word, but I use real words all the time; I can get away with using a fake one from time to time), and to Satine Gold and cctx1502 for following. And thank you to all that made it to the end of this story; I am perfectly aware that it is probably the most AU and strange, weird, spontaneously-construed story you have ever read, and I am so grateful for your patience. Basically this is just what happens in my head, and I know it often doesn't make it to popular opinion, but I hope it at least makes somebody happy. :) Because that somebody is probably like me.**

 **I bid you all a very fond farewell . . . until our next meeting.**

 **-Sev Baggins**


	26. Need of Knead (Extra)

**Diem Kieu: :D Yeah, but it's also really weird, so ending probably not as sad as it could have been. XD I'll edit it in the future, I promise.  
Yes! On to Frodrida!**

 **Is very sappy, sappy chapter! O.O And it was also written in two sections of one or two hours apiece, very slapdash done. One-shot-ish, not meant to be perfectly coherent.  
This is based on something Diem Kieu brought up in passing, so big thanks to her for the writing of this scene! X)**

"Bilbo, my favorite eldest son . . ."

Bilbo's eyes sank shut; he knew a big favor was coming out. "Yes, my favorite mother?"

Sev laughed, slipping her wing about her son's shoulders. Delamarth lay prostrate on the crystal waves, succumbing to a sea of firelight flowing from the horizon beyond. Sev allowed Bilbo to ogle over his beautiful wife for another moment before she nudged him.

"I got married today, 144 years ago," Sev hinted. "That's a special number for your father, you know."

Bilbo's eyebrow shot straight up, but he did not turn away from the siren in the water. "Indeed," was his only reply.

"And thus, I'm sure your father would appreciate very much to have an evening alone. He is raising nine hatchlings and three children, you know, and an anniversary is a wonderful day for a break."

Bilbo grinned. While he could be obstinate and openly reluctant at times, he was a great deal like Frodo, and Sev knew he wouldn't refuse on his father's behalf.

"All right," Bilbo said. "I'll look after them." Then he paused, staring at a dragon-halfling and her hobbit spouse backed against a tree nearby, and he nodded to them. "Some of them, at least; I'm sure Timanaa and Fredegar would be available to take a few."

Sev squeezed Bilbo's shoulders. "Thank you; you're the best." She brushed her crimson membranes over his hair. "Don't forget it, and don't let that siren let you forget it either."

Bilbo called out to her as she trotted up the shore, preparing to shove off with her wings. "That siren has a name, you know!" He shook his head; she was too far away to hear him. He knew it was hard for her. He'd heard the stories over and over again, recorded poems and songs from his surrogate uncle Samwise: Delamarth had once been the Ring, and done horrible things to his father . . . apparently not only the things Sam knew about, and not only the things written, but worse things. In preparation for his marriage, Frodo warned Bilbo about Delamarth: apparently during their travels to Mordor, she had attacked Frodo, for reasons Bilbo's father dare not explain, but she left a huge gouge in Frodo's chest, as well as permanent clawed scars on his neck and all over his ribcage. Frodo had never told anyone else, although eventually had to confess to his wife for her medical education from the Draconic royalty.

Bilbo had never known his wife to do any horrid thing, not to him. He continued to watch her as she swayed with the water; she was such a graceful, beautiful creature. And she doted upon him, offered him affection and passion sometimes even he didn't have the capacity to express back to her. He closed his eyes, remembering their first kiss. She had obviously known better than he did of such things, and he remembered talking to his father about it. Frodo had warned him to be careful: Delamarth was designed to break him apart, no matter how she had changed.

"I wish they could only see what I do," he murmured, as though they could hear him.

"Which is what, my most Precious one?"

Chills ran up Bilbo's back at her voice, and his eyes eased open. She stood over him, completely dry and draped in a radiant dress of black. She settled by his side and rested her hand on the opposite side of his waist. Bilbo sighed and allowed her to lay his head on her shoulder. Her fingers traced over his opposite arm, as soft as her feathers. His eyes flickered.

"It's nothing," he said, pausing as though he could come up with an affectionate nickname to distract her. But he had no ideas on that. He often told her he had no words to describe what he saw in her, and while she often gave him a flat look that told him she felt he was overdoing the flattery, it was the truth; it was all he knew. He meant it more in an apology than anything: she'd have appreciated a sweet nickname.

Of course, she always knew when he was uncertain or lying. This case concerning his struggle with his father's perspective on her was no different. She twisted her fingers in his curls absently, getting a glint in her eye that always terrified Frodo. Bilbo found it endearing. "Nothing? Nothing indeed, Bilbo," she snorted. She caught a graceful fingernail under his chin and tickled faintly. "There's something inside that beautiful throat of yours waiting to come out. Share your concerns with me," she whispered to his vocal cords. Her eyes lifted to his own.

Bilbo stiffened as though his father was standing behind him, repeating that warning again: "Delamarth can hurt you. Be careful."

"My father doesn't trust you, does he?" Bilbo asked.

Delamarth's eyes blazed. "Of course not," she said. Bilbo winced at her livid flare. "I take it he almost didn't turn you over to me; he was the first to recognize that I had changed, but now that I'm married to his son he has understandably grown protective." Over her statement her anger deflated, and she sank against Bilbo's side. "Your mother isn't as bad about it. We were actually getting along early on in their marriage; a century and a half can do more than you would expect." She smirked up at him. "I'm old, aren't I?"

Bilbo stammered his response, and she laughed as he tripped over himself. "Well, no! That is . . . well, you _are_ , but you don't . . . well, my parents are almost as old . . . you don't _look_ that old." He finally turned cherry red and leaned away from her, as though she were uncomfortable with his indecision.

She nudged him. "Love, I'm pulling your leg; don't mind it." Then she paused. "Where are Frodo and Reject, anyway?"

"It's their anniversary today," Bilbo said, glancing back at the white ziggurat bursting from within the mainland forest. "And they're sending the . . ." He paused, searching for a good phrase. He was accustomed to hearing Delamarth's "affectionate nickname" for these particular halflings, but due to his father's chagrin at the phrase he decided it better not to go there. "Their adorable angels down for Timanaa and me to keep an eye on."

Delamarth snorted again, earning a chuckle and a hopeful peck on the cheek from Bilbo. She couldn't keep the sly grin off of her face when he touched her, but she managed to retain some level of disdain in her voice. "Adorable angels. You really are your father's child; they are _not_ angels. By the Valar, my Precious, two dozen of them have horns!"

"Nine at present," Bilbo corrected.

"Anything above two children is up in the dozens and hundreds," Delamarth retorted. "Your parents are insane." She exhaled powerfully.

Bilbo waited a long moment. She would have refused by now if she weren't willing to help; he knew that, deep down, she probably had some space in her heart for any one of Frodo's children. She had long since expressed to Bilbo that even if Chaaempier didn't exist, she couldn't have ever married Frodo: she had been the one to scar him, but his response to her had pained her just as horribly. She didn't accept being vulnerable, or appearing to have heart in any way. If anything Bilbo had learned that of her first.

"Delamarth? You are thinking."

She gave him a dry look, and he felt the retort coming before she even breathed in: "Better than your pasttimes." He'd learned never to hurt at anything she said; she only meant to build herself up one bit at a time, and he didn't mind the attitude. Thus he didn't mind that the look she now sent him was not apologetic, but wavering on a difficult decision, one that he could sway. He smiled at her, and something inside of her head twisted. He leaned forward, and their foreheads met.

"With Demiel moved on, it is no struggle to have a day to ourselves," Bilbo mused. He had a high voice, and no experience with being suave (he'd never needed it, not for courting Delamarth), but she still shuddered and melted against him. He didn't understand what effect he had on her; he thought she was beautiful, but he didn't seem to die inside like she did every time they touched. "Perhaps, if you at least let me watch the Twelve Terrors . . ." He never knew how to say these things. He always ended up tripping over himself with them.

Delamarth shivered with caged laughter, and Bilbo's eyes sank shut: she knew he was being ridiculous, as well as knew precisely what he wanted to say but couldn't. And she knew all too well how to handle such a situation.

"Then?" she prodded.

He abruptly turned red as she chuckled beside him. "Well . . . you know . . . you know what I'm trying to say!"

Delamarth gave him an innocent stare. "Do I? But you haven't said anything yet. More clues, love; what happens if you watch the Twelve Terrors?"

"I'll spend time with you . . ." Bilbo couldn't figure how else to word it. Delamarth laughed for another moment before settling, nodding.

"Holding and reverencing each other in the lunar light, you mean?" she murmured. Bilbo settled, defeated, as she continued. He quickly grew apprehensive, as she slipped her arm over his torso and eased towards him. He initially backed up until he collided with the nearest tree. "Feeling the tide tease our feet while we walk . . . and kiss . . . and express our deepest fears . . ." She pressed her delicate lips to his cheek, faintly and fleeting like a flower petal on the wind. "Our greatest loves . . ." Her lips traveled to the tip of his nose, and she adjusted herself smoothly before him, now facing him with her knees tucked up, balancing perfectly on the balls of her feet. Her mouth grew near to his; he couldn't feel her words, she breathed them so faintly. "Is that what you meant?"

Bilbo nodded dizzily, waiting for her to seal the gap between them, but she just mused to herself and sat back. As he exhaled Bilbo found that he had tensed against the back of the tree, arching towards her until she turned away from him. Perhaps he understood his father's fear a little; the effect she had on him was uncanny.

Delamarth looked him up and down. "Bring the Terrors," she said. "And thank your parents on my behalf for bringing you into this world . . ." She looked like she had something passionate to say, something so emotionally driven that Bilbo would flinch and stiffen as he often did when she spoke. But she didn't. She shook her head, chuckling softly. "So much could have happened," she whispered.

Bilbo peered at her. "I'm afraid I don't understand."

"You are young," she said. "You need not understand. Perhaps someday I will tell you." Her eyes glinted, and she leaned forward. Bilbo closed his eyes, anticipatory, but she did not close hers. She very precisely touched her lips to his, so teasingly light, and pulled away. Bilbo opened his eyes again, confused.

She smirked when his eyes turned to hers. "We are not alone yet, mind," she said. "Go and bring your Terrors, as I said, and tell your parents . . ." She swallowed. She could be so emotionally turbulent, sometimes Bilbo was glad he hardly felt emotion at all. At least, relative to her it seemed that way. "Tell them that I love you and will take care of you longer than I will live."

He didn't know what to say to that.

Delamarth lifted one of her great white wings and cupped it as though to surround him. "Pick the biggest feather and take it to them. Tell your mother to squeeze it into the notch."

Bilbo eyed her queerly.

"This part," Delamarth explained, pointing to her central wing joint. "We call it the notch."

Bilbo nodded, then scanned her feathers for the biggest one. He shuffled through the soft pile, feathers flickering and jumping back into place at his touch. He found one unnaturally large feather, right in the middle. He moved to gently pluck it out, but it just slid, and kept sliding, out as he pulled. Finally it plucked free; he expected Delamarth to wince, but it was as though she didn't notice.

He lowered the feather into his hands to survey it. It shimmered like a pearl in the rising moonlight, perfectly smooth. The clear tip, he was certain, could draw blood with its precision. He wondered how that would look . . . a crimson droplet against a snow background, the beautiful stain of her influence on his life and the life of his family.

"Thank you, Delamarth," he said, staring up at her. The image of the blood was replaced by pure feathers and a beautiful face.

She wrapped her wings around him and squeezed him close without lifting a finger. He embraced her, taken aback by this sudden change of mood but glad of her whole being pressed against him.

"Remember to thank them," she whispered. She ruffled his hair with her wing and backed away, watching him intently as he trotted up to the ziggurat.

Sev waited patiently. She knew Bilbo would come, and she wondered if she ought to have been more subtle in her request. But this was for Frodo, not for her, and so any measures necessary would do—Frodo didn't know yet. He had perhaps expected the whole day to go as normal, with the night only restful, perhaps mildly affectionate.

But Sev certainly had other ideas. Her wings shuffled and fluttered anxiously, hoping Frodo wouldn't be too exhausted to go explore the mainland with her.

She stood when Bilbo arrived at the door of the great ziggurat in which they stayed. Elves were clearing the tables from the grand dinner hosted in honor of Frodo and Chaaempier, but Frodo hadn't been in attendance: he'd been so awfully tired.

"Mother, perhaps we should talk somewhere we could be alone," Bilbo started, but Sev held up a hand.

"Of course. The hatchlings are upstairs," she said. She led him up to the chambers across from what all her posterity referred to as the Master Room where she and Frodo resided, and had for almost a century and a half. The Aaxper Room was a feature of architectural mastery from the dragons, magic that could extend a room's size and use far beyond its physical capacity within the ziggurat itself. Thirty or forty hatchlings could fit comfortably at a time, something Sev had picked up on one of her many journeys home.

She moved to enter the Aaxper, but Bilbo grabbed her arm. She stared up at him.

"I can handle them myself," Bilbo said. "I fear if I begin speaking to Father now I will not stop, but this is a gift from my wife." He slipped the huge feather into Sev's claw, and she inspected it. Her eyes lit up at the sudden recognition of added power.

"She wanted to thank you for allowing me the opportunity to be here," he continued, still uncertain of what Delamarth meant. Finally he decided to come outright with what he felt. "Mother, I believe you could respect her more. She is no less creature than the rest of us, and unlike perhaps what you would think, she means me no harm. After her support of you for so long, I would think you'd have stopped calling her a siren."

Sev chuckled. "If this is about believing I don't give Delamarth enough credit, then you are right; I do not. But about referring to her as a siren? Bilbo, she calls me "reject." We are of a friendly rivalry; I'm sure your father has told you stories." Her countenance fell at this, but she shook it off. "I've told her oftentimes that I do not mean malice to her, and I believe truly that you see her as a siren. Desirable, if not sometimes dangerous but overall very beautiful."

Bilbo swallowed and nodded.

"Your father is very worried about you," Sev said, "but that is what scarred fathers do. Delamarth almost broke him, and while she has changed, this is not about what state she is in: this is about what he feels whenever he sees her. He's trying not to, but he sees passion he will never live up to. He sees the fear he always felt when she saw him, although it is very brief now upon first seeing her. This was not the case when he and I were first married, but now that she looks at you with the same possession that she once eyed him, that fear is ignited in him." She shook her head. "Be careful. Leastwise around your father; but when you're alone with her, don't take her for granted."

She sounded a little shaky saying it, but Bilbo decided it was only for the deep hurt Delamarth had ever inflicted on them. He squeezed Sev's shoulders and stepped into the Aaxper Room.

Sev surveyed the feather, wondering what to do with it. She thought about hanging it on the wall, but if Frodo knew it had come from Delamarth it might frighten him. She confessed to herself that he would never say such a thing, that the 'advice' he offered his son often came back to plague him later. And he was right, as usual: his impact on his son's relationship with the Ring knew no bounds. She wondered if he regretted his fear of Delamarth.

Bilbo hoped the same as he explored the Aaxper Room. It was larger than usual, as his parents didn't usually didn't have a dozen living on with them at once. There were charred pieces of wood everywhere; three of the hatchlings had just broken through their shells a week before, and were still extraordinarily young, young enough that often they still needed Sev for direct sustenance.

No doubt Frodo could use a hand more often. Bilbo frowned to himself as he surveyed the ever-continuing room: he considered to do more than just tonight. His only son had moved on long ago. He could take some of this.

After perhaps ten minutes of wandering, he found the edge of the room, where Frodo's voice—rising and falling in that tantalizing, exciting way he told stories—softly filled the air. He remembered stories from when he was young, not so much Frodo's own as those of Bilbo's namesake. Sometimes Bilbo wished he could have met the old adventurer, who had passed away less than a year before Bilbo was born.

"—and he yelled at the spiders, telling them to follow him. He at least had to get them away from the dwarves, even if he knew he could be eaten." Frodo's gaze flickered up to Bilbo, and his eyes shimmered fleetingly before he turned back to the dozen children sprawled on the ground before him. Bilbo counted, only to find that there were were only nine on the floor, six of them hatchlings. Three hatchlings, the middle set of eggs, cuddled against Frodo, one curled around his neck, the other tucked up and sleeping by his ankle, and the third held close to his chest. His thumb absently curved over her shoulder as she snored; she was the only calm one of the three middle hatchlings, and she had trouble learning or speaking. A bad egg, the dragons would have called her, but Frodo loved her more than they would ever know of their own 'bad eggs.'

"But they can't catch him, 'cause he was wearing the magical ring," the eldest piped up.

Frodo actually smiled at that, to Bilbo's surprise. "Yes, yes he was." Frodo thought of Delamarth now, still protecting Bilbo. "So he ran through the woods, taunting the spiders. They grew angry and scared; of course they could not see him. He had to lead them away from his friends, and then he could begin to cut them loose."

Bilbo stepped into the light. "Using nothing other than the great sword Sting, of course."

"Bilbo!" a handful chorused, and most of the others followed. Suddenly nine little ones crowded Bilbo, some of them not so little anymore. He embraced each of them as efficiently as he could, although they all scrambled about him so he couldn't tell which ones he had already greeted.

"Del is waiting downstairs," Bilbo said, and pretty soon all of them were headed for the door. The hatchling hanging around Frodo's neck awakened, nuzzling his father's head before flapping his maturing wings to catch up with his siblings. Frodo gently nudged the hatchling at his foot, who did the same as her brother.

"How is Messyra?" Bilbo asked.

Frodo stared down at her. She squeaked in her sleep, yawned, and cuddled up against him. Frodo smiled initially, as only a loving father could, and laid his other hand across her tiny torso. Her malfunctioned wings fluttered at his touch, gripping his fingers initially.

"I appreciate her lack of energy," Frodo said, and Bilbo chuckled. Then Frodo shook his head. "But I am afraid that she may never be able to move on. She recognizes family, but thus far she cannot say a word. She also cannot walk for herself. The eldest of these are almost ready to assist me, and then I can focus more on helping her."

Bilbo put a hand on his father's shoulder. "That's why I'm here."

Frodo chuckled. "Of course." He glanced down at Messyra, stroking her stick-straight, red-blonde hair back. "Messyra," he whispered, "Bilbo is here."

Messyra's albino eyes flickered open, with pupils of faded gray and irises of milky silver. She smiled up at her father, hugging his neck with her little claws. When she spotted Bilbo, she squeaked and shook in place.

"Hey, Messyra," Bilbo said, kneeling down by Frodo's lap. Messyra reached for Bilbo fruitlessly, and Frodo carefully handed her over. Bilbo pecked her cheek, and she buried her face in his shoulder. "How are you, sweet one?"

She stared up at him with wide eyes. She tried, and frustrated herself in the process, to communicate Frodo's story. Bilbo nodded.

"I know, wasn't it exciting?" Messyra smiled broadly at him, only too glad to be understood. "Listen," Bilbo continued. "Del is downstairs. Are you ready to see Del?"

Messyra's jaw dropped, and she shook in place, trying to throw something out. She strained and stretched, then sneezed a plume of smoke. Bilbo coughed . . . but she then made him stiffen.

"Del," Messyra managed.

Frodo's eyebrows shot straight up, and he stood to stare at Messyra. She smiled at Frodo; no one had ever taught her to frown, Bilbo thought, and of all the things she would never do that was the most hopeful.

"Del!" she cried. "Del, Del, Del!"

Frodo traced his daughter's hair back again. Bilbo peered down at Messyra; she seemed so proud of herself, which he understood, but he wondered if there was something more. He felt magic in her, magic dragons didn't initially have.

"Messyra, has Del been teaching you to speak?" Bilbo asked slowly. Messyra looked up at him, blank at first, but then she nodded emphatically, repeating "Del" over and over again. Then she pointed at her father, concentrating to form a word.

"F . . . f . . ." She bit her lower lip, shoving. Bilbo strained with the influx of magic from her, which Delamarth had taught him to feel. "Fr . . . Frodo," she burst finally. She giggled to herself, then sneezed another ball of smoke.

Frodo contained his excitement long enough to tell her he was proud of her, and asked Bilbo to thank Delamarth on his behalf.

"I will," Bilbo said, occasionally throwing his gaze to Messyra. He embraced his father, and Messyra waved goodbye as her eldest brother carried her towards the door.

"Bilbo, why are you taking your siblings?" Frodo asked.

Bilbo turned back to Frodo, and his eyebrows slacked. His father looked exhausted, and he suddenly saw what he felt his mother had.

"Because you look awful," he said. The moment Frodo started chuckling, Bilbo realized Delamarth would have as well. He blushed. "That is to say . . . well, you certainly look young for your age . . . but I know this has been hard on you . . . I mean, I'm not going to lie and say you look the best you ever have . . . but you don't look _that_ awful . . . I . . ."

Frodo shook his head. "Bilbo, do not trouble yourself. I know perfectly well what you mean, but your concerns are with your own family, not mine. What spurred you to do it?"

Bilbo walked to the door, and Frodo followed. He stepped out, glancing back briefly.

"Mother did."

The Aaxper door closed behind Bilbo, and Frodo sat against the wall, defeated. Sometimes being immortal didn't seem to pay off: he almost wished he were on the brink of death for how little sleep he'd gotten since these last eggs hatched. He had insisted Sev go back to the dragons and learn, specifically from Elskalaanth, who was a master healer and engineer. Mehssylau, Sev called the innovators. With a mother gone—learning of draconic royalty secrets or not—caring for the hatchlings was so much harder.

He didn't hear the door open. He sat in muddled thought while Sev watched him, his breath heaving and his eyes sealed shut, ready for deep rest. She thought on the miles and miles she wanted to travel that night . . . and threw it all out. Tonight was not the time. If anything, Frodo needed a breather right now. She'd been travelling enough recently; she could sacrifice one desire for this.

She knelt down by his side, studying his every move and his every feature. Every time she thought she knew him from head to toe, she looked at him again, and realized another thousand years wouldn't be enough. And the more she learned the more she feared parting with him . . . if they ever did part again. She set her mind as she studied him not to leave, not for another few years at least. She had learned enough, and missed her family in her absence.

She reached forward to touch him, but thought the better of it when his eyelids flickered tiredly. She settled for letting her claw drift to the ground inches shy of his pale fingers . . . the fingers of a writer, of a quiet warrior. One sharpened, black nail lifted: the remnants of his pointer finger, although its hand lay limp on the other side of his legs, called to her touch—needing, tired, wanting. It was the only scar she had been unable to mend.

Perhaps she would ask Elskalaanth if there was any way to repair it. She knew Frodo didn't care for that mark upon him.

When he seemed to be asleep, Sev traced her claws across the golden band on his wrist closest to her. She felt his pulse in it; his veins had begun to grow into the metal. She'd known it was a part of his skin, a part of his body, and Delamarth didn't even know how to remove it. Aluekrai had told Sev there was no way to be rid of them; any enemy could control him if they got close enough.

Frodo did not seem to awaken. Sev tucked the white feather into her notch to hold it out of the way while she reached over him. She slacked down by his side, facing him, and allowed her fingers to roam over the bite marks permanently staining his flesh with blood that would not wash away. It was no wonder to her that he still feared Delamarth.

Frodo allowed her to touch him for another long moment, savoring the caress of what should have been harsh scales across his skin. Her claws were composed of such fine grains that it spanned the gap between an itch and a rub.

Sev sensed movement deep within him, and so began to pull away. Frodo twitched initially and reached up for her hand. She hesitated and sank back down; her waist rested against his knee, and he leaned forward to meet her.

"You're welcome to keep going," he murmured, his eyes flickering open. "How are you?"

Sev smirked, but any attitude in her smile faded when Frodo reached up to cup her jaw. She felt for his hand that remained on the ground and sheathed it with her own, allowing her scales to rub across the back of his hand. She picked it up, feeling every inch from his fingertips to his wrist, then farther upward. Frodo's forehead rested against hers, derived of her affectionate touch for three months now. After having it for so many years it was difficult to be without the gentle, sometimes burning passion he knew too well.

"I just flew in this evening," she whispered. His eyes sank closed as her voice traced his jaw. She let a lazy hesitation into her movement, absorbing the full roll of his cheek pressed limply against hers as she eased her lips towards his ear. "I asked Bilbo if he would take the load off of you; you've been a responsible . . ." She pecked the border of his cheek where it met his curls; his skin echoed with tingles. "Loving . . ." Her next kiss, lighter than the last, came closer to his temple. "Exhausted . . ." Her lips lingered, faint, against his forehead. ". . . I suppose I could take longer telling you, but you've been a wonderful father while I've been gone." She brought his head down to rest under her neck. "And a companion I've been yearning to come home to. And in light of our anniversary celebration today—,"

Frodo stiffened. "Oh, Sev, I'm so sorry; I forgot entirely."

Sev wrapped her arms solidly around his torso, as though he would run away and scramble to make plans of some kind. "No. No, no, no; I already had something in mind. _However_ , because of how tired and amazing you are, I've decided it would be better to change plans."

His brow furrowed. "You can't change on my account; it's your anniversary as well."

She snorted. "Yes, I can." He didn't manage to stifle his huge yawn, and her moan of sympathy vibrated through his head. "Come. Into the Master Room—you need to rest."

Her notch tingled, and Sev glanced up at it. The feather there shivered, latching into the bone, and began to multiply. Feathers swelled from the bone in her wing, staining crimson red as they grew, and flocked the membranes of her wings. She almost panicked until she realized what it undoubtedly meant, but why Delamarth would give her feathers under her skin, she did not know.

She extended a claw to Frodo, and he rose to his feet, fingers entwined limply with hers. The feathers halted their growth, and now covered the front and back of her wings. Perhaps they had better traction with the wind, or perhaps tighter turns. Or perhaps Delamarth believed every creature—including dragons—was jealous of her feathered wings and assumed Sev would feel privileged to have them.

Sev puzzled over this until she entered the Master Room with Frodo. He looked so awfully tired, and she confessed to herself that his features seemed tantalizingly lenient. Her gaze strayed to his lips a handful of times, and she lowered him onto the bed. He drifted in and out of sleep.

"What would you like, Frodo?" she whispered.

He inhaled and exhaled powerfully. "Anything." Then he paused, rethinking his statement as her hand crossed over his torso to caress his own fingers. "Touch."

Sev's eyebrow lifted in amusement.

"Touch it is," she said, rolling up her sleeves. "I'll just have you sit up for a second." She lifted him to a sitting position, situated him as comfortably as she could, and proceeded to slip the buttons of his vest out. Frodo lowered it to the bed; he didn't understand what she was getting at.

"Now lie down on your stomach."

Frodo eyed her curiously, but obeyed as she discarded the vest. She used the blanket as leverage to scoot him farther down along the bed.

"And relax," she insisted. She eyed his back with a tsk. "You look insanely tense."

Frodo did his best, but he was curious: he couldn't relax, not until he knew what she was doing. Sev didn't wait longer than a few seconds before she braced her hands against his shoulder blades and pressed into his white shirt and the knotted muscle, kneading his skin lazily. Frodo's eyes rolled back, and his head slacked down into the pillow in front of him. She bunched the tensity in his shoulders by fistfuls, working down his back to the middle of it, before she began rolling her knuckles across what she had already done.

"Sev . . ." Frodo didn't entirely know what to say.

"Come on, Frodo; just tell me, 'You should have thought of this earlier.'" Sev chuckled at her own statement, but Frodo shook his head.

"It couldn't be better," he muttered.

Sev traced her nails across his back after that, up his neck and into his hair. He mumbled something even he couldn't discern. While his children were sure to embrace him and cuddle with him, this was different. Vastly different. Something he'd missed, far longer than she had been gone.

Sev carried on in this pattern long into the night. Frodo slept on and off with her efforts, feeling every last bit of pressure and ache flake away at her persistent touch. He awakened more fully when she shifted her touch to his hardened feet, pressing her thumbs along every inch of the sole to loosen its tense grip Frodo hadn't even noticed. She restlessly slipped over him, kneeling up on the bed to get more leverage in pressing down on his back. She gently squeezed his upper arms, unraveling their tension as well.

Then she eyed the feathers on her wings.

"Frodo, Delamarth sent a gift with Bilbo tonight."

Frodo didn't move. Sev slowly lowered her wings, allowing the tips of her feathers to brush against his arms. He awakened to take in the swarming caress as she lowered more feathers over his skin.

"She sent a feather that multiplied when I put it into my notch." Frodo shuffled towards her, and she lifted him off the bed with her wings, backing him into her torso. "I wonder if this is why."

Sev wrapped her arms around him to hold him up and allowed her feathers to trace the curls back from his face, then drift down to his hands. He breathed a heavy sigh, and his eyes sank open. She stared at them intently until they turned to her.

"She also taught Messyra to speak," Frodo said. "I gather she used some form of magic."

Sev almost dropped him. "What?!" Then she realized that question was useless; he doubtlessly told her what he knew thus far. She threw it aside. "Frodo, that's wonderful! What did she say?"

Frodo's lips stretched into a smile; Sev eyed him, longing and anxious. "'Del' was her first word. Then she said my name." His brow furrowed, and Sev suddenly wanted that smile to come back. "I don't suppose she'll teach her to call you properly; probably 'reject' or some such."

"I'd let her do it; my daughter can speak and will form her own perspective of me," Sev said. She lifted Frodo closer to her, allowing her lips to settle on his jaw; she left them there while she spoke. "Besides . . . all the world for now is in your smile alone. The day has afforded sufficient sorrow . . ." She pecked the tip of his ear and allowed kisses to roam through his curls. She tightened her grip when he slacked in place. ". . . but now all the happiness it might have had is here in Frodo of Valinor, and I could not be more fortunate or grateful to have him in my arms for the rest of my life."

Frodo nodded, unsure what to say in response. He wanted her to keep going, not necessarily talking, but kissing him. He pressed her fingers against his chest. "It's a shame there are only so many hours before the rest of the world wakes up."

A grin lit Sev's face for a short moment, and she realized that she could still see Frodo's face despite the lateness of the hour. She glanced up at the moon. It was not full that night, but in Valinor the moon was unnaturally close at this time of year: the waxing half shed a powerful glow across endless treetops. She frowned when her gaze lingered on the patch of forest that was still burned, the branches sticking up like broken bones. She lifted her free hand from around his chest, pressing it against his back just below his neck. Sure enough, there were still flakes of ash. His skin may very well never recover, not after all this time.

"You have a lot of scars, sir," she said.

Frodo didn't want to talk about them. He brought her hand around again, pressing it to his lips. "And I have a lot of consolation for them."

And thus the tables turned. Every memory flooded back to her, over the last hundred years or so that they'd been married, far beyond that. She sat, frozen, while he knelt up and gathered her against his chest. Her hands rested limply on his shirt collar as he leaned down to kiss her, his lips brushing softly against hers. A sigh filled the air, from whom they could not tell, surging Frodo with unconscious energy. He cupped her close to him, habitually running his fingers along the brim of scales on her wings. His hands drifted down the extent of her wings to frame her waist, as easily as though not a day had gone between since they were last alone. But he felt the isolation deep down, and as it spread to the surface of his being he caressed her lips warmly. Enthusiasm and energy trickled into his movement, his fingers restlessly traveling her shoulders, neck, and face. Her eyes shot wide open when he clutched her closer and added tenderness to his touch.

Finally he parted from her and dotted her jaw with faint kisses, but did not push it; if anything, being married for so long had taught him to savor every moment and every touch, not to speed it along. He slowed, coming to rest with his head on top of hers.

Sev blinked away her innate surprise. "You seem in a good mood," she said slowly. "I doubt I wish to know what you were thinking in that time."

"Even if you don't, I'm of a mind to tell you," Frodo murmured, pressing her wing to his cheek. Sev abruptly turned bright red and waited. "No need to get stiff," he continued; he stroked her back to press the tension out. "I have nothing to say that I would not repeat in front of your mother."

Sev chuckled. "But something to make Nithkerekk upset with you?"

"Absolutely."

"He's better than you think, you know," Sev interjected. Frodo could tell she was drawing away the subject; he didn't know how to assure her that there was nothing to be afraid of, for the deep conversation that made her nervous and disconnected would not even come up. She squirmed a little in his arms, and he gave her wiggle room. "Elskalaanth is very stubborn, and a good creature. She's bringing out some good in him."

"Truly?" Frodo shook his head. "My closest friend, you are distracting me. I have something to say."

Sev bit her lip shut. She knew it wasn't right to derail, and so she glanced down at the blanket below her kneeling position.

"Go ahead," she said, stiffening herself. "I'm ready."

Frodo lifted a hand from her back and tilted her chin up towards him. "Sev . . . my Chaaempier . . ." He leaned forward and closed her eyes with the whisper of a fingertip, followed by a faint brush of his lips. "I wish you could see what I do." He kissed the border of her cheek, allowed her hair to tickle his face. "Hear what I do." His mouth barely grazed hers before he backed a breath away. "But then I recognize that this love that I have is not that of any other, that the opportunity to appreciate you will never go away, and that no one else will ever have the privilege to feel it." Her cheek rose to meet his, and they swayed together there for a short moment. She began humming, and Frodo lowered his cheek to feel her voice move.

"And you are a soft kisser," he added.

Sev blushed suddenly, and the laugh that echoed from her mouth was nothing short of nervous. Frodo shook his head. "Sev, I'm serious!" He reached back and stepped off the bed, beckoning for her to follow. Sev stood, still taken aback by his comment, and still furiously red. He took her hand and led her into a basic, relaxed dancing position. She rested her head on his heart, one hand beside her cheek and the other around his shoulder, as though she could capture the precious beats of lifeblood within him, hold it in her fingers. She wrapped her wings around him as well.

"I suppose what I mean to say," Frodo said before he began a slow waltz in lazy circles around the moonlit floor, "is that I feel how you care for me." He buried a kiss in her hair. "And I hope I give you the same wonder, the same amazement, that I feel—I couldn't imagine a life without it, and love you too much to let you go without it either."

Silence settled over the room as they swayed together, not squeezed tighter than either could breathe in and not a world apart: together, as only best friends of the marriage nature are in casual, but affectionate in a way they could let anyone in the world see.

Sev felt the dawn before she opened her eyes; she didn't want to leave this endless pacing about the floor with the creature she loved more than anything.

"The world is awake," she said at last, wondering if Frodo had fallen asleep in his endless pattern. But he had not. He had taken time to study her face, think about what life would be like if he lost her forever, like he once had. As though his thoughts broke to become reality, she slipped out of his arms and stepped towards the door. "Bilbo will be bringing the hatchlings back soon. You should rest."

Frodo grabbed her arm and dragged her back towards the balcony. She stared up at him, and he nodded to the door. He led her outside, and the crisp morning of Valinor shone with a brilliance of red and gold over the forested ziggurats. The last of the stars faded on an inky horizon behind them, as did the exhausted crescent moon.

Bilbo waved from below. Delamarth held Messyra; all the others were asleep, doubtlessly tired from whatever Delamarth had kept them up doing the night before. Frodo waved back.

"Let them see," he whispered to Sev, feeling her shiver. She relaxed as well as she could, and in front any that wished to contend his ownership, Frodo kissed and held his precious Chaaempier.

 _Precious_ , he thought. _What an accurate phrase._


	27. AU Ending - Star of Valinor

**Diem Kieu: Nothing significantly** ** _more_** **juicy, but juiciness in itself I am almost always in a state to write. XD Thank you so much for sticking with! And I love this AU ending so much more than the original. XP**

Delamarth's body was found days after Bilbo died. At least, what was left of it: she and Sev had both fallen, and were crushed beneath the same boulder. Frodo didn't want to see them, either of them, but he couldn't ignore the mourning of the dragons. They were all over the sky, at the burial mountain, all through the ziggurats. There were not very many present for the burial of Chaaempier, but Aluekrai, Malachthar, Nithkerekk, the Emperor and Empress, as well as her contemporary clutch of siblings was enough to stir every thread of devastation in every creature for miles around.

Frodo finally couldn't take any more of this pressure. He broke from his bed, racing down the steps of the ziggurat. There was no one to run in to; all the Elves knew Sev from Rivendell, and were down at least to pay homage if not to fully mourn. He had to squeeze through endless crowds once he got outside, but he couldn't avoid disrupting the lament of the Elves if he tried to force his way through. He stood patiently, hoping they hadn't started the process yet.

"Frodo," Aluekrai whispered. Frodo glanced up at her, then jolted: her eyes were a blood red, and the same color stained her claws and teeth. He realized then what draconic mourning meant, or at least what constituted it. Aluekrai had been injuring herself on behalf of her anguish for her daughter.

She extended a drying claw to Frodo, and he stepped inside. "You ought to bury her," she said.

"And what of Delamarth?"

Aluekrai's eyes narrowed. "That siren is not worthy to be buried in our mountain," she said curtly. Frodo felt he should not push it, but he felt it an injustice, deep in his heart where he felt the right, even if it didn't make sense outside.

"Aluekrai, where is she?" he persisted.

"We will burn her body later, to celebrate the collapse of Amarth," Aluekrai said. She lowered him to the ground, ahead of the Elves. "She is here for now. All of her associates will be located and added to the fire."

Frodo knew he would deal with this, but all his concoctions for plans of any kind disappeared when he saw them both. Delamarth was left the way they'd found her, with the arrow lodged in her shoulder and her chest crushed. Red blood soaked through her black dress, creating a dirty mix of color. Frodo knelt by her head and brushed the hair from her face. He sent a determined gaze back to Aluekrai, then slipped Delamarth's eyelid open. Within he saw one last echo of hope and anguish in her perfect gaze.

He didn't understand.

Frodo's fingers fell to her hands, limp by her side on the bare ground. He leaned down to her ear and wondered if she felt him now . . . what she would do if she knew. Had he ever taken her for granted?

No. No, not truly: if anything he should have strayed from her more.

"I will bury you, I promise," Frodo said. He squeezed her hand and lightly pressed a kiss to her forehead. A sharp inhale came from behind him, probably one of the dragons by the dynamic of it. He released Delamarth, hoping that whatever he felt to care for her was not ill founded, and that his token of gratitude was worth it to her. It felt so strange to see her dead at last, but not as strange as perhaps it should have been: he often envisioned her dead, letting her fall into the Crack of Doom and cringing at the idea of her being human during the process.

All thoughts and confusions of Delamarth melted away as Elrond pulled back a white, embroidered sheet, revealing Sev's body. The dragons had sealed her broken skin back together, and she wore a perfect dress of solid white. Her wings and scales were not there; she was left as one creature, not torn anymore.

Frodo stepped forward, sealing his eyes shut as he lifted her limp form from off the ornate base she was laid on, a slab of obsidian on a stained black cedar base. It was simple in design, rushed in its construction, with clawed feet and dragons etched into all sides.

Frodo finally allowed his eyes to open when her body rested in his arms. He bit back a burst of horrified energy: this was no burial dress. It was a wedding dress. The silk bodice fit her nicely, with mid-length sleeves netted in small diamonds. A strip of thicker fabric with another diamond at its center outlined the taper of her waist, cutting it off from the simple skirt. She wore a ring she'd never had before, of Elvish design.

He stared up at Elrond.

"She left her request with us when she came to Rivendell," Elrond said. "She told us to bury her in Elvish wedding traditions if she died unmarried."

Frodo didn't know what to say. He wished he could ask her, ask her how long she had known and how long she had wanted this. He might have asked her that first night, before any of this island happened. She might never have disappeared, and they would still be together now.

In the process of him lifting her, her carefully organized curls fell over her features. He stared at where her face would be if only he were brave enough to look. Aluekrai lifted him from the ground, but he felt so distant that he didn't register until the shadow of the burial mountain shielded her pale skin. Aluekrai lowered him off to the side of the water.

Frodo stared at the limp form in his arms for what felt like an eternity. The water waited patiently, and Aluekrai's head disappeared from view. His stunned gaze flickered over the extent of what should have belonged to him for the rest of his life. He pulled back the neck of her dress just slightly, to find that there were no marks, not where the stab occurred, not where her body would have been broken. A flare ignited Frodo's core: she shouldn't have died. There was no evidence of why she should be gone now.

He didn't want to bury her. So he sat with his feet barely skimming the water's surface . . . and waited.

The day hours slipped away. Night came on. He did not move. The water did not stir. No one came in. He could wait here forever, he felt; he was not hungry, he was not tired. The new moon left the water eerily dark, and probably would the next night as well.

Perhaps, Frodo thought in his delirium, her body would become so bored, so near to burial and so far from it, that her spirit or soul or whatever existed to keep her moving would come back. Or maybe he could summon it back.

"Frodo."

His head snapped up, and he squinted into the afternoon sun behind Aluekrai's head.

"Frodo, it has been two days," Aluekrai urged. "You must let her go. You have a life to live in spite of what has befallen you."

Frodo shook his head. "I care not. I have no need to bury her."

"Anaska-tei, see reason, please. The water may take you both; it is designed to search for death, and while it sustains a mourning period for those in the process of burial, I am sure you have overdone yourself. It may take you as well." She nodded to the pool; the water trembled and bubbled, which Frodo hadn't noticed thus far. He scrambled away from it, but took Sev with him.

"This is not wise!" Aluekrai insisted. "Frodo, put her in and come with me."

"If I die here I am with your daughter," he said. He turned his gaze back up to her. "If you had known her perhaps you would do as I do in this position."

She stared at him stubbornly, and lowered her claw inside. "Bury her, now."

He shook his head. "I will do it when I am prepared to do so. I will emerge from the underwater tunnels when I'm ready."

Aluekrai reached for him, and he slipped into the back of the cavern where neither she nor the water could touch him. She exhaled a frustrated plume of smoke before retreating.

"Frodo, I've let her go. You must do the same."

"I thought you told me sometimes that was in the wrong," Frodo said.

She frowned deeply at him. "Let go of her in peace before she is torn from you." With that the dragon was gone.

Frodo waited. After a matter of hours he realized how hungry he was, how thirsty he was, how sore he was. He shuddered a sigh and glanced down at Sev. She would probably chastise him for neglecting himself this way on her behalf. He wanted her to open her eyes and tell him so; maybe he would believe it more if she said it.

He shook his head. He knew he was being irrational. He wondered if love did this to everyone, if Sam would ever have done the same for Rosie, if anyone would recognize him now for how he felt and acted.

In spite of that realization, he continually refused to let her go.

The moon was still new that night, or would rise late, and the water was dark. Frodo slept against the wall of the mountain, his fingers tracing over her in sleep.

The night was yet young when a huge ripple echoed through the already turbulent water. A fiery glow erupted within the water itself, its ancient magic disturbed by the presence of untended decay. The bubbling plops of angry droplets awakened Frodo, but by the time his eyes opened a shower of water came crashing down in disorganized tentacles, grabbing at Sev and shoving him away.

"Wait!" he cried. Then an obstinate surge came over him . . . as though she were begging him to hold on. He dug his heels into the ground, fighting it. The water sucked him in as well, shoving both down deep into the central well, all the way to the bottom tunnel. His head collided with a rock, and the last thing he felt was Sev's wrist clamped in his hand.

-0-

When he awakened he still had her hand. It relieved him, until he opened his eyes. Her entire body pulsated angrily on the shore of the little lake. Her touch burned his hand, but he had to keep it. It didn't feel like skin; it felt permeable like water, but not quite liquid, as though he couldn't break the surface tension.

She looked different. Every color on her was muted, as though part of another world, which he realized it might have been: her skin had become almost transparent from pale, and toned down from there. Her hair was more of a blood color, pressed by shadow. He watched her until the pulsating stopped. He waited for the water to do something to him, to her, but nothing happened. He lifted himself up off the shore, watching her face. He hadn't uncovered it since they found her, and her features now stunned him: he didn't know if it was from death or from Elvish help, but suddenly every part of her was accented: her lips were brighter, her cheeks were whiter, her eyebrows were sharper. He bit his lip and moved to trace her hair back. But before his hand even came in contact with her, his other one slipped.

Her eyes staggered open, and she gasped for air.

Frodo was struck speechless for a long moment as she coughed and sat upright. He just stared. He had nothing he could say; he hadn't exactly expected her to come back to life.

"Sev?"

She shook her head wildly. There was some liquid factor to her movement, as though there were some kind of lit fluid trapped under her skin, and that it contributed to her paleness. She stared around, testing her skin.

Frodo clapped the side of his head, but this was no mirage and it was no dream. He sprang forward, cupping her face with both hands. She halted her self-inspection to stare up at him. He didn't hold the tears back, but he was so shocked that not many came.

"Sev," he insisted. "Sev, can you see me?"

She peered at him, but it was a few minutes before her eyes illuminated with epiphany.

"Frodo!" Her breath shuddered as she clamped her hands over his own, stroking them desperately. "No, I can't," she whispered.

Frodo cocked his head; she didn't respond. "You can't what?"

"I can't see you." She strained her eyes, willing herself to see what she felt and heard. "Your words fade in and out."

Frodo knelt over her, sizzling with energy. He didn't understand what had happened, but if he only had this dream for a blessed moment he would take it. He cupped her face closer to his own, wrapped his arm solidly around her waist.

"But you can feel me," he said.

Sev nodded. Her hand left his, traveling blindly up his shoulder and his neck until she found his face. She scrambled to feel it, tracing his eyelids, his forehead, his nose. Her fingers found his lips, and she inhaled sharply.

Frodo pecked her hand, dotting against her palm, down her wrist. She grabbed his shoulders, and he met her halfway, but he left only a faint kiss against her mouth before adding another, and another, followed a last one that he pressed deeply against her. She was so cold.

He broke off hesitantly, wondering if that would be the last or if this miracle would let her stay. "Sev, what happened to you?"

She shook her head, not daring to open her eyes for fear that she would lose track of his presence again. But something in her did feel different, more anchored to this world. She lingered on the border of both, she knew. By what powers, she did not understand.

"I'm not sure," she said. Then she glanced down at her arms. "I think I'm a ghost, Frodo."

Before he could reply, her eyes wandered to his hands, and she gasped. She could see them now. They faded in and out of sight, fuzzy as though he were an unconvincing mirage. But she lifted her eyes to his face. His eyes were so clear, and she focused on them.

"But you kept me here," she whispered. "You didn't let go."

"Sometimes letting go is the wrong thing to do," Frodo admitted. He glanced down at her legs; her skin stretched from pale to transparent, and her feet were lost in the stone. "A ghost, you say? Can you stand?"

Sev paused. "I don't know; I can't feel my feet. But I want to try. I want to go back with you if I can."

Frodo extended his hands and stood. But when she followed, she didn't even come suspended off the ground; her legs remained solidly inside the ground, as though she were buried above her ankles. She lost her balance and collapsed against him; she felt so light. Absurdly light.

"I'm not getting out of here." Then she paused. "How long have you been with me?"

Frodo shrugged, and his eyelids flickered from lack of sustenance. "A few days, I think. Your mother came in and said it had been two, but I don't remember how long it's been since."

Sev frowned at him. "Well, go eat! You obviously haven't in a while." She pressed her hand against his ribcage. She bit her lip when she realized how familiar it felt, how healthy he was, but she said what she'd intended to anyway."You have nothing on you."

"No." Frodo swallowed. He tipped up her jaw and kissed her lightly again. "I'll stay with you."

"You need to live." He remained obstinate. "I _want_ you to live. If you die, I may never see you again, not until life itself crumbles and I have nowhere to go but the other side." Sev rested her forehead against his. "Please, stay living. Then I know you're all right."

Frodo paused. "If I go, would you let me come back?"

"You need to live your life," Sev insisted. She lifted her hands to his chest to push him back, but he trapped them there and only brought her closer. "Frodo . . . go away. If you starve to death and turn into a crystal, I may stay in limbo and never forgive myself." She allowed an overdramatic undertone to develop in her voice, although she meant it for the most part.

"Will you let me come back?" he persisted.

Sev chuckled bitterly. "Do I have a choice?" She stroked his curls back. Frodo couldn't tell if she was fading or becoming more substantial, but her fingers were suddenly the wind he felt brushing his hair every day on the Valinor shore.

"Do you suppose the wind is made of ghosts?" Frodo asked. "Ghosts of people you once knew . . . or may someday know?"

Sev nodded. "They could be." She glanced down at her legs, and with a thrust of concentration, she forced them to fade. Frodo stared up at her.

"Sev, you aren't leaving me."

"Just resting. It is exhausting to be where you shouldn't; I've lived a life like that."

He glanced at the ground. "I didn't mean to do this to you. Can you make the decision to leave?" He honestly didn't want to bring that up. She might try and never come back. But if she felt the displacement and discordance she felt in life, he did need her to have that option.

"No, I don't want to go away," she said. "I want to stay with you. But I will rest while you go eat." She paused, surveying his expression. He looked so much older deep in his eyes, perhaps a little hollow. She brushed his hair back again. "Remember this: you live your life under the same sky and the same sun, if ever you travel again. Thus," she said, "the wind in your hair is my touch. The birds are my song. The stars are the way, the road home I've laid out for you and for you alone. And the moon is my way to you: perhaps you can't always see me, but I am always there."

He didn't seem to look sufficiently comforted after what she said. He embraced her solidly, squeezing her close to him like she may never be more.

"Now go," she said. "I shall be here when you return." She stepped back, and the rest of her slowly faded out of sight. "Call out my name, and I will respond to you."

-0-

Frodo took his time processing after he left. He almost didn't want to go back; she would never leave that mountain.

But at least he could still see her, still touch her. By coming to Valinor, he realized, he'd only wound himself into a bigger mess of pain and vulnerability: now it was his responsibility to accept the healing capacity of what had been given to him, take charge of the repairs to his mind.

She could never wholly be his, he realized. Or could she? She may linger on the brink of death with no ability to fall in, but he could touch her. And she wore a ring of promise: perhaps Elvish law would let her to put that to good use. Even if a ceremony could not be performed inside the mountain, it could be legally recognized.

Frodo's gaze fell on the ashy remnants of a huge bonfire. He wondered at it only briefly before racing over to the ash pile, and he dug through it frantically. As he dug through and black smudges sheathed his fingers, he did his best to avoid looking at the creatures that were perhaps thrown inside by the dragons. He thought he saw a hand that looked like Smeagol's, and quickly averted his gaze. He found Delamarth at the base of the pile, completely untouched. He hid her again, resolving to take her back with him when he came to the cave again. Hopefully Sev would be resting, or at least not mind. Perhaps to bury Delamarth on shore would be a better idea. He couldn't decide.

The Elves were shocked to see him, or so he felt initially, although they avoided staring at him and said nothing. Elrond and Gandalf greeted him casually, and he did so in response. He redressed himself, ate, and allowed himself some rest. But he did not sleep. He stared up at the ceiling, disillusioned. But he relented to the innate peace of Valinor surrounding him: the Ring was gone. Bilbo had passed peacefully. The world was safe, and if Frodo wished he could let his mind and his body at ease. His wounds were healed.

He aimlessly let his cloak fall to the bed as he sat up, and in his movement, anticipation of the ocean coaxed him outside. He wandered through the fruit trees, now packed with succulent, colorful fruit that filled the air with a variety of sweet scents, from stinging orange to gentle passionfruit to a spicy simmer he didn't recognize. He let his steps linger, inhaling and exhaling slowly. His senses tingled with the innate light of this world, of everything he let peel away from him.

He reached up to a low-hanging branch and slipped a ripe, ruby apple from it. He rolled it around in his hand. He could feel peace, in a place he knew and felt safe . . . He leaped up for a dark orange bulb, ellipsed with a tiny bulge that hooked it to the tree. He plucked it down and ran his fingers over the plush fruit, twice the size of the apple; it had the spicy essence he caught earlier. Or he could try his chances with Sev, love and care for a ghost even though it would cause him heartache and the reminder of things he perhaps didn't want to remember. Sacrifice love for peace or peace for love.

Frodo wandered to the shore, apple and its opposite in his hands. The ocean lazily stroked the shore, leaving a dark mark on the pale beach. Frodo sat at its edge and let his feet rest just before the lapping water. It tickled his heel once and retreated; swamped his ankle and retreated; then the waves avoided his skin entirely.

He bit out of the apple first. It crunched into his mouth, filling his tongue with familiar sweetness and soft inner flesh. He swallowed that and moved to take another bite . . . then eyed the orange fruit in his other hand. He lifted it, smelled it. The spice didn't appeal to him, not in a fruit, but the apple would probably fix that quickly. He still wanted to try it.

The moment his teeth sank through, a burning flared on his tongue. He almost recoiled from it, but then he came to the inner fruit. It was softer than the apple, permeable like the slices of an orange but not divided by so many fibers, and no juice squeezed out at him, and far more dense. He stopped; the burning vanished immediately, and instead a sweet, sugared cinnamon covered his tongue, erasing the sting he'd felt before. It wasn't quite cinnamon, though; it had the accent of cinnamon, but the initial flavor was more . . . he couldn't place it. Strawberry, perhaps.

He swallowed the bite. It was rather small, and he felt he needed a more substantial one. But before he could even try, he stared at the inside of the fruit. There were no visible veins, and no juice had puddled in the nibble mark; the fruit on the inside was a spring green, thick and tempting.

He took a flap of the skin and pulled it back, biting into the exposed fruit. The bite filled his mouth. With the absence of peel there was no cinnamon touch, but completely sweet. He had no reference for the taste, although perhaps a mesh of stark strawberry and watermelon did the trick, only thicker in texture. He wanted Sev to try it. He completely forgot about the apple after that. It likely rolled into the ocean, but he never cared to look for it.

But on his way back, he stopped by the library; she would probably appreciate something to read while he was away. He found a few books on Elvish history, a compilation of ancient draconic legends, and three novels that he skimmed and found useful. He got stuck reading one, a particularly intense one about a pair of twins, children of Rohan that traveled the world, rescuing victims of war and mistreatment. It ended with the death of one twin, and the mournful but dedicated continuation of the other's work, on behalf of his brother. Frodo wondered if this had ever been based on fact.

"Frodo," Gandalf said. Frodo's head shot up. "Dinner is ready."

"I'll be along, Gandalf," Frodo said. He hadn't realized the novel had hit him so hard, but he felt the sting of a reader's tears behind his eyes. He picked up the book, along with the rest of his stack, and started walking out of the room when he noticed an abandoned sack. It didn't look Elvish, and he recognized it immediately as Bilbo's. He nudged it open with his foot and slipped the books inside. It had journeyed with his uncle, and now came to rest, perhaps to a higher calling now.

He ate in silence, filled with energy as he listened to the graceful conversation of the Elves. He felt better then than he had in a long time.

"Elrond," he said. The elf stared down at him as though he'd forgotten Frodo was there, but relaxed quickly. "There's a fruit outside," Frodo continued. "The orange one, with the green inside. What is it?"

Elrond nodded at Frodo's plate. "It's called _leonin._ We use the skin for everything. Any spice you have tasted is likely of the _leonin,_ although it is not used plentifully; it can be poisonous if you eat an entire skin to yourself. Not fatally so, but it provides no pleasant recovery."

Frodo thanked him, running _leonin_ through his mind. He left quickly in spite of the peace of the dining hall, excited to take the fruit to Sev. He went out and picked three _leonin_ from outside and stuffed them in Bilbo's travel bag. He tied it up tightly, now unsure how to get this all in to her: he didn't want the water to destroy any of them.

Then he also remembered Delamarth. He decided perhaps it would be best to wait on the sack until he knew how to get it inside, and he left it by the base of the mountain. He ran back to the ash pile, dug Delamarth out from the flaked blackness, and hefted her over his shoulders. He had always envisioned her limp and pale, lifeless, but not like this.

Frodo brought Delamarth as close to the mountain cave as possible before diving down to put her in the hole. He shoved her as far as he could get her through, then leaped back to the surface for air. He inhaled deeply, staring down. He knew the route of the tunnel well, but had never navigated it with a corpse ahead of him. He dove back down, knowing he couldn't really prepare himself.

He scraped himself horribly along the walls as he propelled Delamarth forward. Blood soon flowed after him in little droplets; he soon realized through his breathless muddle that part of the problem was his arrow embedded in her shoulder. He scrambled to snap it and break it free; he yanked the tip out of the other side of her body, scraping his finger and thumb in the process. His vision started to go fuzzy, and he knew he had to get out. But he was so close, the only way was forward. He shoved her fruitlessly, losing his precision and thus his progress. His eyes blackened, and he slacked with fading energy. Then a surge yanked Delamarth away from him and threw him into the mountain. He coughed as the water slapped him against the shore, and he turned over to see the water trying to swallow Delamarth. It probably didn't want her there.

But Frodo couldn't protest; he could hardly move, much less think. He was still heaving breaths in and out to get life flowing through him again. By the time he blinked reality back into his vision, Delamarth was on the shore, condensing into a black crystal with red streaks of her blood. Frodo leaped over the reservoir, and immediately he saw a smile on her face, and in her eyes.

"You're not dead?" Frodo's jaw dropped.

Delamarth's legs folded into solid crystal; she winced from the pressured change. "Almost. The fire has melted me . . . and I have no choice but to accept this." She leaned up; the burial process spread up her legs, and she gasped. "Frodo . . ."

He leaned down to hear her, and she grabbed the back of his neck, forcing him into a harsh, dizzying kiss. He protested, scrambling back, but could not let go until she did. Her lips grasped his, threatening, ordering him to succumb. He was too repelled to respond to her. She settled onto the ground, letting her fingers possess his before they were sucked into the crystal.

"Thank you," she strained. "For everything." Then her eyes narrowed. "I tried, I tried; I tried to save her for you, Frodo Baggins."

With that her entire body was encased in a huge crystal. She had no soul, and Frodo realized that if she died, her very essence and being would cease to exist. He anticipated she would be trapped there forever, and realized his mistake: he should have left her dormant when he could. Now her reminder stood before him.

But she had thanked him in the end. Perhaps there was some good in her emptiness.

Frodo stood and turned away. "Sev?"

She did not answer, not for a few moments. He turned about in the cave. "Sev?!" He shook his head, glancing up at the hole. His heart pounded just faster at the realization that perhaps she was wrong; perhaps his best efforts weren't enough, and she had faded away.

 _"_ _Rest, Frodo._ " Her voice echoed about the mountain. _"I will visit you, I promise. Dream of me. I will be there."_

Frodo didn't want to leave, not really. But her voice persisted, repeating that he should dream of her and that nothing else would work. He asked her to show herself, to come with him as he waited, but she did not answer.

Staring into the cave one last time, Frodo dove down below the water and carved his way out to break the ocean's surface. It was late enough that he could attempt to sleep, he supposed. He typically would have been up for at least another hour, but he needed to see if she truly would come to him.

He didn't care to change in or out of anything before slipping into bed. He stayed nervous, stock-still in tangled sheets, hoping and praying she would come. He tried to convince himself that it would be no different if she did not come, but he realized there were things he could never manage to forget, not so long as they existed somewhere.

The minutes dragged like eons. He stared at the ceiling, then heaved a sigh and glanced at the balcony. The room seemed so empty, even though she had never been a part of it. It was as though he had envisioned spending the rest of his life with her.

His thoughts wandered into an exhausted, fading muddle. He slacked in place at last, his hand clasped to his heart as though he could hold it together.

"Frodo."

He didn't process the whisper through his partial sleep before velvet lips dotted against his forehead, pressed to his fingertips, brushed against his limply closed mouth. He moaned softly, reaching up to deepen the kiss. He subconsciously reached out and found her shoulders, sitting up to meet her. When she pulled away, he could do nothing to keep her: it was as though she faded away.

He snapped to his feet. Before him she stood, more a specter than she had been before. She looked more faded.

Frodo stared at her. Her wedding dress made her glow; he wished it was for him. She looked beautiful, standing there with the shine of the dark surrounding her figure and diamonds dotting her dress. He thought she seemed so fragile, and so soft. He wanted to hold her and let everything else fade away. And so he did; in spite of how he could see right through her, she felt as real as the floor beneath his feet. He bit his lip, wishing with everything he had that she would never go away again. But this felt so dreamlike, now that he thought about everything but her figure in his arms; what if she wasn't really here?

"I came to look for you, but you weren't there." He scrambled back from her; she gave him a weak smile, and he leaped for Bilbo's satchel, which he had absently remembered to bring home. "I got some books for you, while you're in there. And some food I think you would like to try."

Sev's interest piqued; Frodo shivered at the sudden light in her dark eyes. He handed the satchel to her, and she dug through, naming the books as she read their titles. Frodo contained his excitement: she could touch the books. She could obviously read them. In spite of how she looked, she was still tangible somehow.

"Elvish law, volumes I-VI . . . Savior of the Dunedain . . . Draconaaske Ikalotheihniskra!" The word, which Frodo heard as a jumble of syllables and read as gibberish (Dragonese looked somewhat similar to the common tongue, with insertions of letters he had never seen before), came so naturally from her mouth that Frodo didn't doubt it had more significance to her than he recognized. She stared up at him, then embraced him again. "Thank you; these are wonderful."

"Enough to last you a few hours?" Frodo asked absently, wrapping his arms around her. Now that she was not truly alive anymore, she did not smell of dragon fire, but of cold, rich earth. He held her slightly closer and doubted that she would notice.

She laughed, then nodded. "Absolutely."

Frodo savored her touch for another moment before he reached into the satchel. "And I brought you these," he said, lifting a _leonin_ from his satchel. She cocked her head. He still couldn't adjust to her clear skin, to the shadows beneath her eyes and the ethereal quality to the way she moved. "I don't know if ghosts can eat," Frodo said, "but this made me think of you. Here."

She accepted it from him and sank her teeth into it. He opened his mouth to warn her, but her face did not contort. It actually fell. She stared at the ground. Frodo turned to the fruit, only to find that there wasn't even a hint of a bite mark in it.

"Sev?"

She shook her head. "I bit as hard as I could, Frodo; honest, I did. My teeth won't go in—the outside is too tough."

Frodo furrowed his brow. "It's not difficult at all." Then he paused; perhaps it was harder than he remembered. He bit into the _leonin_ , but even with the peel it came easily to him. He shook his head, erasing the spice from his mouth before he swallowed. "Yeah, not at all."

She shrugged, crestfallen. "Must be a ghost thing."

Frodo pinched a chunk out of the fruit, now determined to have her eat it, if such was possible. "Here," he said. She coyly opened her mouth, and he set it inside. She waited for him to pull back before closing her mouth over it. "Does that help?"

She managed to chew it, but then shook her head. "I can't taste it very well," she said. "Somehow I know . . . not through smell, not through taste, I don't think . . . it should be spicy on the outside, and very sweet on the inside. I can only really feel the texture. It's almost like I can only feel the essence of it. I can't taste it very well."

Frodo stared down at the _leonin_ ; he didn't understand why he was so obstinate about this, but she needed to feel that contrast. He bit into the fruit again, letting both skin and flesh linger on his lips for a long moment before bringing it into his mouth and swallowing. "How about this?"

Sev gave him a confused stare before he closed in and pressed his lips against hers. She paused, then responded, easing into a gentle flicker of conserved touch.

"Hmm . . ." She pulled away, licking her lower lip. "Spice." He kissed her again, just a little deeper, but didn't push it. She left a breath of space between them after that one. "Definitely something sweet." She kissed him back; it was not a fraction as stark as when she used to be able to eat, but tasted as simple kisses often did. But soon that sensation faded, mild as it was, and she settled simply to feel his lips softly brushing against hers. Now that she didn't exist, he felt so different, like an anchor . . . especially his lips. He could touch her with his hands or hold her to his heart, but his kiss was the most real part of anything to her.

"I missed you today, you know," she muttered against him. His fingers eased against her neck, keeping her close to him; he didn't need words, not just yet. Finally he parted from her, resting her head on his shoulder.

"I missed you too. I brought the _leonin_ because it reminded me of you," he said. He realized he had already mentioned that, but she didn't care about repetition, so he let it hang in the air.

She snickered. "And now it will remind me of you; congratulations." Frodo chuckled, rubbing her arm.

"Frodo, I cannot linger," Sev said. Frodo opened his mouth to protest, but she gently laid a finger against it. "So I wanted to ask if you would walk with me before I must go."

Frodo agreed and led her down the shore, letting the waves tickle their skin. He stayed on the inland side of them; it disturbed him to see her feet, almost nonexistent.

"I had to fade to get to your room," she said. "It hurts a little bit, and I have an inner warning when I get farther away from the mountain than I should. I have a range from there," she pointed to a felled tree in the distance, "to there." She gestured to the first ziggurat in the forest. "Basically where no creatures inhabit, leastwise while they're awake. I doubt I could interact with any of them. You're already visionary, and you brought me into this state. That's probably why I can talk to you.

"It's strange," she said. "I see things so differently. I can see the sun right now, stare right through the earth and find it. I see the stars all day, watch them move. The light of the world doesn't change. The things that are important to me, to my lifestyle, are the brightest; everything else is very gray. I can see magic in the air; I can hear the breathing of the trees, the song of the ocean." She stared at the sand. "I can't see my feet at all, or feel them. I had to practice walking on non-feet all day. They're still there, I think . . . in some kind of way. Or maybe there's just a force keeping me above the ground that I have to walk with."

She stopped, staring up at Frodo. "The North Star is always visible," she said. "But there was a cloud today, that came in front of it, and I got taken right back to the mountain, stuck right in the same spot. I had to fade again to get out. I can't go into any of the tree shadows because it blocks the star."

Frodo waited for her to continue, but she didn't.

"What of you, then?" she asked. "Did you find anything today that you wanted to tell me?"

Frodo paused. "Yes," he said. "I let everything go . . . when I went back to my room this morning." His eyelids flickered when her fingers traced up and down his arm. He could see his sleeve contours through her skin. "I felt peace again, like I haven't in a long time. I felt what it was to let everything I'd ever known fall away, and be almost less of me and more of some creature that existed simply because it did. I felt free, Sev."

Her head cocked. "And why didn't you stay?"

"I wanted to," he said. "I really did. I went outside—picked an apple, forgot about my troubles, about anything unusual to the masses. I suppose I let everything soak in . . . and then I found the _leonin_." He shook his head. "I suppose I just realized that . . . that freedom, that peace, no matter how wonderful it felt . . . is nothing compared to this. Look." He wrapped his arms around her waist and backed her into his chest. Leaning over the water, he quickly found her reflection. There was no moon behind it, but her dress and her overall transparency illuminated her face. He leaned down and pressed his cheek against hers.

"Losing you is losing the pain I felt on Amarth, and in your absence," he said. Her expression fell away from him, and he tipped her chin back up to look at herself. But her eyes strayed to his face in the water; she didn't want to watch herself. She didn't feel worth that; but somehow he felt better about her than she did, for which she was grateful. For being dead, this seemed a positive thing.

"But losing you is also losing the most beautiful creature I've ever had in my arms before, the lass I love the most." He reached forward and stroked her hair back. Tingles raced through her soul at the affectionate touch, and she slacked against his chest.

They stood there in the tender silence when Sev began to fade. Frodo had to let her go when clouds shielded the North Star from her gaze; he couldn't locate it, but she said she saw it as a disk brighter than the sun. Apparently in her mind it was particularly important, because it gave off a plethora of color.

Before she faded completely, she pecked his lips. "I see the most light and color in you, Frodo. Please don't leave me forever."

"Wait!" Frodo cried, thrusting the satchel into her hands. He pressed it to her heart and kissed her forehead once more before she faded completely. "I love you," he said to the empty air.

He awoke moments later.

-0-

He imagined she would wish him to feel peace while she was gone, and so he let the light of the land fill him in the moments she could not be there. He wanted to dismiss her as a mere dream now, but he imagined she had left him in his bed: he still felt the sweet spice of their _leonin_ kiss on his mouth, her transparent fingers caressing his arm, her reflection in the swell of the ocean, the essence of cold earth all around her.

But he still anticipated getting to bed that night. He fell asleep early, so as to get actual sleep even if he did stay up half the night with her.

Sev came quickly that night. Frodo had barely slipped his eyes closed when she began shaking him away, kissing him frantically. He awakened—shocked—to kiss her back, but she drew back too quickly.

"Frodo, I cannot stay long; tonight is rainy." She fizzled in and out of his vision, and he stood to touch her. She shook her head. "You must see what I've found!" she said. She held out one of the Elvish law books he had given her, and he stared at the page she anxiously gestured to. She pointed to a paragraph at the end of a pair of huge pages divided into two columns of complex calligraphy; he skimmed it, then had to read it twice more.

"Elvish marriages are not until death do they part?" Frodo said slowly. "They last beyond life itself, and are designed that way to create not only a bonding of the physical body but of souls that will never separate. Any who desired to be married to one dead and did not have the opportunity may approach an Elvish seer, and participate with the spirit or soul present at an official Elvish ceremony."

Sev paused. "Wait." She glanced down at it. "That wasn't what I meant to show you."

Frodo snatched the book away before she could take it back. "Why not? Sev, this is wonderful." He tossed the book aside, cupping her face in his hands in spite of her shifty movement in mild protest. "Sev, would you not do it?"

"Do what?"

"Sev, that book! Did you not see?"

She cocked her head. "No. I just know that wasn't what I meant to show you; what did it say?"

Frodo's eyes sealed shut, and he leaned his forehead against hers. "Chaaempier, will you marry me? Please? That ring on your finger; is there any way I could become a part of that promise to you?"

Sev paused, and Frodo wondered if she was confused or excited. But when he pulled away, there were tears glistening in her eyes, not so much liquid as a solid formation of crystal.

"You already asked, you know."

"But you weren't a ghost at the time," he reminded her. He knelt down, but before he could ask again she got down right with him, barreling her face against his chest. She began to fade again, nearly falling right through him.

"Of course I will," she whispered. "Of course I will."


End file.
